peculiar to the ringing of bells in empty lodgings.
Saranin ran to the house-porter. He was pallid. Smail drops of sweat, exceedingly small, like dew on a cold stone, broke out on his face and specially on his nose.
He dashed hastily into the porter's lodge and cried:
"Where is Khalatyantz?"
The porter in charge, a listless, black-bearded bumpkin, was drinking tea from a saucer. He eyed Saranin askance. He asked with unruffled calm:
"And what do you want of him?"
Saranin looked blankly at the porter and did not know what to say.
"If you've got any business with him," said the porter, looking at Saranin suspiciously, "then, sir, you had better go away. For as he's an Armenian, keep out of the way of the police."
"Yes, but where iS the cursed Armenian?" cried Saranin, in desperation. "From number 43?"
VThere is no Armenian," replied the porter. "There was, it's true, I won't deny it, but there isn't now."
"Where is he, then?"
"He's gone away."
"Where to?" shouted Saranin.
"Who can say?" replied the porter, placidly. "He got a foreign passport and went abroad."
