Bodlevski, little as he was used to refined surroundings, found his gorge rising.  At some of the little tables furtive, impudent, tattered, sleek men were drinking.

Presently Yuzitch made his appearance from a low door at the other end of the room.  The meeting of the two friends was cordial, especially on Bodlevski’s side.  Presently they were seated at a table, with a flask of wine between them, and Bodlevski began to explain what he wanted to his friend.

As soon as he heard what was wanted, Yuzitch took on an air of importance, knit his brows, hemmed, and hawed.

“I can manage it,” he said finally.  “Yes, we can manage it.  I must see one of my friends about it.  But it’s difficult.  It will cost money.”

Bodlevski immediately assented.  Yuzitch at once rose and went over to a red-nosed individual in undress uniform, who was poring over the Police News.

“Friend Borisovitch,” said Yuzitch, holding out his hand to him, “something doing!”

“Fair or foul?” asked the man with the red nose.  “Hang your cheek!” laughed Yuzitch; “if I say it, of course it’s fair.”  After a whispered conference, Yuzitch returned to Bodlevski and told him that it was all right; that the passport for Natasha would be ready by the next evening.  Bodlevski paid him something in advance and went home triumphantly.

At eleven o’clock the next evening Bodlevski once more entered the large room at the Cave, now all lit up and full of an animated crowd of men and women, all with the same furtive, predatory faces.  Bodlevski felt nervous.  He had no fears while turning white paper into banknotes in the seclusion of his own workshop, but he was full of apprehensions concerning his present guest, because several people had to be let into the secret.

Yuzitch presently appeared through the same low door and, coming up to Bodlevski, explained that the passport would cost twenty rubles.  Bodlevski paid the money over in advance, and Yuzitch led him into a back room.  On the table burned a tallow candle, which hardly lit up the faces of seven people who were grouped round it, one of them being the red-nosed man who was reading the Police News. The seven men were all from the districts of Vilna and Vitebsk, and were specialists in the art of fabricating passports.

The red-nosed man approached Bodlevski:  “We must get acquainted with each other,” he said amiably.  “I have the honor to present myself!” and he bowed low; “Former District Secretary Pacomius Borisovitch Prakkin.  Let me request you first of all to order some vodka; my hand shakes, you know,” he added apologetically.  “I don’t want it so much for myself as for my hand—­to steady it.”

Bodlevski gave him some change, which the red-nosed man put in his pocket and at once went to the sideboard for a flask of vodka which he had already bought.  “Let us give thanks!  And now to business!” he said, smacking his lips after a glass of vodka.