The young man was so absorbed in his examination of the twenty-five ruble note that when a gentle knock sounded on the door he started nervously, as if coming back to himself, and even grew pale, and hurriedly crushed the banknote into his pocket.

The knock was repeated—­and this time Bodlevski’s face lit up.  It was evidently a well-known and expected knock, for he sprang up and opened the door with a welcoming smile.

Natasha entered the room.

“What were you dreaming about that you didn’t open the door for me?” she asked caressingly, throwing aside her hat and cloak, and taking a seat on the tumble-down sofa.  “What were you busy at?”

“You know, yourself.”

And instead of explaining further, he drew the banknote from his pocket and showed it to Natasha.

“This morning the master paid me, and I am keeping the money,” he continued in a low voice, tilting back his chair.  “I pay neither for my rooms nor my shop, but sit here and study all the time.”

“It’s so well worth while, isn’t it?” smiled Natasha with a contemptuous grimace.

“You don’t think it is worth while?” said the young man.  “Wait!  I’ll learn.  We’ll be rich!”

“Yes, if we aren’t sent to Siberia!” the girl laughed, “What kind of wealth is that?” she went on.  “The game is not worth the candle.  I’ll be rich before you are.”

“All right, go ahead!”

“Go ahead?  I didn’t come to talk nonsense, I came on business.  You help me, and, on my word of honor, we’ll be in clover!”

Bodlevski looked at his companion in astonishment.

“I told you my Princess Anna was going to run away.  She’s gone!  And her mother has cut her off from the inheritance,” Natasha continued with an exultant smile.  “I looked through the scrap basket, and have brought some papers with me.”

“What sort of papers?”

“Oh, letters and notes.  They are all in Princess Anna’s handwriting.  Shall I give them to you?” jested Natasha.  “Have a good look at them, examine them, learn her handwriting, so that you can imitate every letter.  That kind of thing is just in your line; you are a first-class copyist, so this is just the job for you.”

The engraver listened, and only shrugged his shoulders.

“No, joking aside,” she continued seriously, drawing nearer Bodlevski, “I have thought of something out of the common; you will be grateful.  I have no time to explain it all now.  You will know later on.  The main thing is—­learn her handwriting.”

“But what is it all for?” said Bodlevski wonderingly.

“So that you may be able to write a few words in the handwriting of Princess Anna; what you have to write I’ll dictate to you.”

“And then?”

“Then hurry up and get me a passport in some one else’s name, and have your own ready.  But learn her handwriting.  Everything depends on that!”

“It won’t be easy.  I’ll hardly be able to!” muttered Bodlevski, scratching his head.