nder secret supervision, and undoubtedly still is so. And in view
of the disorders that have come to light now, you are undoubtedly bound
in duty. You are losing your chance of distinction by letting slip the
real criminal."

"Yulia Mihailovna! Get away, Blum," Von Lembke cried suddenly, hearing
the voice of his spouse in the next room. Blum started but did not give
in.

"Allow me, allow me," he persisted, pressing both hands still more
tightly on his chest.

"Get away!" hissed Andrey Antonovitch. "Do what you like... afterwards.
Oh, my God!"

The curtain was raised and Yulia Mihailovna made her appearance. She
stood still majestically at the sight of Blum, casting a haughty and
offended glance at him, as though the very presence of this man was an
affront to her. Blum respectfully made her a deep bow without speaking
and, doubled up with veneration, moved towards the door on tiptoe with
his arms held a little away from him.

Either because he really took Andrey Antonovitch's last hysterical
outbreak as a direct permission to act as he was asking, or whether
he strained a point in this case for the direct advantage of his
benefactor, because he was too confident that success would crown his
efforts; anyway, as we shall see later on, this conversation of the
governor with his subordinate led to a very surprising event which
amused many people, became public property, moved Yulia Mihailovna to
fierce anger, utterly disconcerting Andrey Antonovitch and reducing him
at the crucial moment to a state of deplorable indecision.

V

It was a busy day for Pyotr Stepanovitch. From Von Lembke he hastened to
Bogoyavlensky Street, but as he went along Bykovy Street, past the house
where Karmazinov was staying, he suddenly stopped, grinned, and
went into the house. The servant told him that he was expected, which
interested him, as he had said nothing beforehand of his coming.

But the great writer really had been expecting him, not only that day
but the day before and the day before that. Three days before he had
handed him his manuscript _Merci_ (which he had meant to read at the
literary matinee at Yulia Mihailovna's fete). He had done this out of
amiability, fully convinced that he was agreeably flattering the young
man's vanity by letting him read the great work beforehand. Pyotr
Stepanovitch had noticed long before that this vainglorious, spoiled
gentleman, who was so offensively unapproachable for all but the elect,