Mezhenétsky smiled. “All right; send him to me,” he said. “These sectarians,” he thought, “also hate the Government. … He may be of use.”
The watchman went away, and a few minutes later opened the door and let in a rather short, lean old man with thick hair, a thin, grizzly goat’s beard, and kindly weary blue eyes.
“What do you want?” asked Mezhenétsky.
The old man glanced at him, and quickly dropping his eyes again, held out his small, thin but energetic hand.
“What do you want?”
“I want a word with thee.”
“What word?”
“About faith.”
“What faith?”
“They say thou art of the same faith as that youth that Antichrist’s servants strangled with a rope in Odessa.”
“What youth?”
“Him as they strangled in Odessa in the autumn.”
“Svetlogoúb, I suppose?”
“Yes, the same. … Thy friend?” At every question the old man gave Mezhenétsky’s face a searching glance with his kind eyes, and at once dropped them again.
“Yes, we were closely bound to each other.”