Saranin turned pale.
"Understand," he said in a trembling voice, "I must get hold of him, come what may."
He burst out crying.
The porter looked at him sympathetically. He said:
"Why, don't upset yourself, sir. If you do want the cursed Armenian so badly, why then, take a trip abroad yourself, go to the registration office there, and you'll find him by the address."
Saranin did not consider the absurdity of what the porter said. He became cheerful.
He at once rushed home, flew like a hurricane into the local office, and requested the man in charge to make him out a foreign passport without delay. But suddenly he remembered:
"But where am I to go?"
V.
The cursed nostrum did its evil work with fateful slowness, but inexorably. Saranin became smaller and smaller every day. His clothes dangled round him like a sack.
His acquaintances marvelled. They said: "How is it that you seem a bit smaller. Have you stopped wearing heels?"
"Yes, and a bit thinner."
