Then the Prince rose to ring the bell, and Razumov, making a short bow, had said with deference—­

“I have trusted my instinct.  A young man having no claim upon anybody in the world has in an hour of trial involving his deepest political convictions turned to an illustrious Russian—­that’s all.”

The Prince had exclaimed hastily—­

“You have done well.”

In the carriage—­it was a small brougham on sleigh runners—­Razumov broke the silence in a voice that trembled slightly.

“My gratitude surpasses the greatness of my presumption.”

He gasped, feeling unexpectedly in the dark a momentary pressure on his arm.

“You have done well,” repeated the Prince.

When the carriage stopped the Prince murmured to Razumov, who had never ventured a single question—­

“The house of General T—–.”

In the middle of the snow-covered roadway blazed a great bonfire.  Some Cossacks, the bridles of their horses over the arm, were warming themselves around.  Two sentries stood at the door, several gendarmes lounged under the great carriage gateway, and on the first-floor landing two orderlies rose and stood at attention.  Razumov walked at the Prince’s elbow.

A surprising quantity of hot-house plants in pots cumbered the floor of the ante-room.  Servants came forward.  A young man in civilian clothes arrived hurriedly, was whispered to, bowed low, and exclaiming zealously, “Certainly—­this minute,” fled within somewhere.  The Prince signed to Razumov.

They passed through a suite of reception-rooms all barely lit and one of them prepared for dancing.  The wife of the General had put off her party.  An atmosphere of consternation pervaded the place.  But the General’s own room, with heavy sombre hangings, two massive desks, and deep armchairs, had all the lights turned on.  The footman shut the door behind them and they waited.

There was a coal fire in an English grate; Razumov had never before seen such a fire; and the silence of the room was like the silence of the grave; perfect, measureless, for even the clock on the mantelpiece made no sound.  Filling a corner, on a black pedestal, stood a quarter-life-size smooth-limbed bronze of an adolescent figure, running.  The Prince observed in an undertone—­

“Spontini’s.  ‘Flight of Youth.’  Exquisite.”

“Admirable,” assented Razumov faintly.

They said nothing more after this, the Prince silent with his grand air, Razumov staring at the statue.  He was worried by a sensation resembling the gnawing of hunger.

He did not turn when he heard an inner door fly open, and a quick footstep, muffled on the carpet.

The Prince’s voice immediately exclaimed, thick with excitement—­

“We have got him—­ce miserable.  A worthy young man came to me—­No!  It’s incredible....”

Razumov held his breath before the bronze as if expecting a crash.  Behind his back a voice he had never heard before insisted politely—­