At that moment a voice was heard outside. It was one of the bell-boys of
the hotel; he was passing through the corridor calling: "Forty-seven!
Number forty-seven."
Prilukoff started. "Forty-seven? That is the number of my room. Who can
be asking for me? Who can know that I am here?"
In his eyes there was already the look of the fugitive, the startled
flash of fear and defiance of the hunted quarry.
I looked round me at all the banknotes scattered on the carpet, and I
felt myself turn cold. "Hide them, hide them," I whispered, wringing my
hands.
"Hide them yourself!" he answered scornfully.
I heard footsteps in the corridor. They drew near. They stopped. Some
one knocked at the door. Terror choked my throat and made my knees
totter.
I stooped in haste to pick up all the money while Prilukoff still looked
at me without moving. I held it out to him in a great heap of crumpled
paper. But still he did not stir.
Again the knocking was repeated. Who could it be? Kamarowsky? The
police? I opened a desk and flung the bundle of banknotes into it.