After all, what did he know about this queer creature whom he had heedlessly accepted as a friend?
What did he know, except that the man had been at the anarchist breakfast and had told him a ridiculous tale?
How improbable it was that there should be another friend there beside Gogol! Was this man's silence a sensational way of declaring war?
Was this adamantine stare after all only the awful sneer of some threefold traitor, who had turned for the last time?
He stood and strained his ears in this heartless silence.
He almost fancied he could hear dynamiters come to capture him shifting softly in the corridor outside.
Then his eye strayed downwards, and he burst out laughing.

Though the Professor himself stood there as voiceless as a statue, his five dumb fingers were dancing alive upon the dead table.

Syme watched the twinkling movements of the talking hand, and read clearly the message-- "I will only talk like this.

We must get used to it." He rapped out the answer with the impatience of relief-- "All right.

Let's get out to breakfast." They took their hats and sticks in silence; but as Syme took his sword-stick, he held it hard.
They paused for a few minutes only to stuff down coffee and coarse thick sandwiches at a coffee stall, and then made their way across the river, which under the grey and growing light looked as desolate as Acheron.
They reached the bottom of the huge block of buildings which they had seen from across the river, and began in silence to mount the naked and numberless stone steps, only pausing now and then to make short remarks on the rail of the banisters.