ake it to-morrow. As
quickly as possible you must print as many copies as you can, and then
distribute them all the winter. The means will be provided. You must
do as many copies as possible, for you'll be asked for them from other
places."

"No, excuse me; I can't undertake such a... I decline."

"You'll take it all the same. I am acting on the instructions of the
central committee, and you are bound to obey."

"And I consider that our centres abroad have forgotten what Russia is
like and have lost all touch, and that's why they talk such
nonsense.... I even think that instead of many hundreds of quintets in
Russia, we are the only one that exists, and there is no network at
all," Liputin gasped finally.

"The more contemptible of you, then, to run after the cause without
believing in it... and you are running after me now like a mean little
cur."

"No, I'm not. We have a full right to break off and found a new
society."

"Fool!" Pyotr Stepanovitch boomed at him threateningly all of a sudden,
with flashing eyes.

They stood facing one another for some time. Pyotr Stepanovitch turned
and pursued his way confidently.

The idea flashed through Liputin's mind, "Turn and go back; if I don't
turn now I shall never go back." He pondered this for ten steps, but at
the eleventh a new and desperate idea flashed into his mind: he did not
turn and did not go back.

They were approaching Filipov's house, but before reaching it they
turned down a side street, or, to be more accurate, an inconspicuous
path under a fence, so that for some time they had to walk along a steep
slope above a ditch where they could not keep their footing without
holding the fence. At a dark corner in the slanting fence Pyotr
Stepanovitch took out a plank, leaving a gap, through which he promptly
scrambled. Liputin was surprised, but he crawled through after him; then
they replaced the plank after them. This was the secret way by which
Fedka used to visit Kirillov.

"Shatov mustn't know that we are here," Pyotr Stepanovitch whispered
sternly to Liputin.

III

Kirillov was sitting on his leather sofa drinking tea, as he always was
at that hour. He did not get up to meet them, but gave a sort of start
and looked at the new-comers anxiously.

"You are not mistaken," said Pyotr Stepanovitch, "it's just that I've
come about."

"To-day?"

"No, no, to-morrow... about this time." And he hurriedly sat down at
the table, watching Kirillov's agi