ry strangely, and at moments seemed not at all
dejected but quite cheerful."

"But what _is_ the matter with you? What's wrong?" cried Pyotr Ilyitch,
looking wildly at his guest. "How is it that you're all covered with
blood? Have you had a fall? Look at yourself!"

He took him by the elbow and led him to the glass.

Seeing his blood-stained face, Mitya started and scowled wrathfully.

"Damnation! That's the last straw," he muttered angrily, hurriedly
changing the notes from his right hand to the left, and impulsively jerked
the handkerchief out of his pocket. But the handkerchief turned out to be
soaked with blood, too (it was the handkerchief he had used to wipe
Grigory's face). There was scarcely a white spot on it, and it had not
merely begun to dry, but had stiffened into a crumpled ball and could not
be pulled apart. Mitya threw it angrily on the floor.

"Oh, damn it!" he said. "Haven't you a rag of some sort ... to wipe my
face?"

"So you're only stained, not wounded? You'd better wash," said Pyotr
Ilyitch. "Here's a wash-stand. I'll pour you out some water."

"A wash-stand? That's all right ... but where am I to put this?"

With the strangest perplexity he indicated his bundle of hundred-rouble
notes, looking inquiringly at Pyotr Ilyitch as though it were for him to
decide what he, Mitya, was to do with his own money.

"In your pocket, or on the table here. They won't be lost."

"In my pocket? Yes, in my pocket. All right.... But, I say, that's all
nonsense," he cried, as though suddenly coming out of his absorption.
"Look here, let's first settle that business of the pistols. Give them
back to me. Here's your money ... because I am in great need of them ...
and I haven't a minute, a minute to spare."

And taking the topmost note from the bundle he held it out to Pyotr
Ilyitch.

"But I shan't have change enough. Haven't you less?"

"No," said Mitya, looking again at the bundle, and as though not trusting
his own words he turned over two or three of the topmost ones.

"No, they're all alike," he added, and again he looked inquiringly at
Pyotr Ilyitch.

"How have you grown so rich?" the latter asked. "Wait, I'll send my boy to
Plotnikov's, they close late--to see if they won't change it. Here, Misha!"
he called into the passage.

"To Plotnikov's shop--first-rate!" cried Mitya, as though struck by an
idea. "Misha," he turned to the boy as he came in, "look here, run to
Plotnikov's and tell them t