CHAPTER VIII. IVAN THE TSAREVITCH
They had gone. Pyotr Stepanovitch was about to rush back to the meeting to bring order into chaos, but probably reflecting that it wasn’t worth bothering about, left everything, and two minutes later was flying after the other two. On the way he remembered a short cut to Filipov’s house. He rushed along it, up to his knees in mud, and did in fact arrive at the very moment when Stavrogin and Kirillov were coming in at the gate.
“You here already?” observed Kirillov. “That’s good. Come in.”
“How is it you told us you lived alone,” asked Stavrogin, passing a boiling samovar in the passage.
“You will see directly who it is I live with,” muttered Kirillov. “Go in.”
They had hardly entered when Verhovensky at once took out of his pocket the anonymous letter
