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“Do not get agitated. Did you know Aquilina?”

“There’s nothing extraordinary about that–“

“She first liked you and then preferred Klausoff?”

“Yes. Ephraim, give us some more mushrooms! Do you want some more tea, Eugraph Kuzmitch?”

A heavy, oppressive silence began and lasted fully five minutes. Dukovski silently kept his piercing eyes fixed on Psyekoff’s pale face. The silence was finally broken by the examining magistrate:

“We must go to the house and talk with Maria Ivanovna, the sister of the deceased. Perhaps she may be able to supply some clews.”

Chubikoff and his assistant expressed their thanks for the breakfast, and went toward the house. They found Klausoff’s sister, Maria Ivanovna, an old maid of forty-five, at prayer before the big case of family icons. When she saw the portfolios in her guests’ hands, and their official caps, she grew pale.

“Let me begin by apologizing for disturbing, so to speak, your devotions,” began the gallant Chubikoff, bowing and scraping. “We have come to you with a request. Of course, you have heard already. There is a suspicion that your dear brother, in some way or other, has been murdered. The will of God, you know. No one can escape death, neither czar nor plowman. Could you not help us with some clew, some explanation–?”

“Oh, don’t ask me!” said Maria Ivanovna, growing still paler, and covering her face with her hands. “I can tell you nothing. Nothing! I beg you! I know nothing–What can I do? Oh, no! no!– not a word about my brother! If I die, I won’t say anything!”

Maria Ivanovna began to weep, and left the room. The investigators looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders, and beat a retreat.

“Confound the woman!” scolded Dukovski, going out of the house. “It is clear she knows something, and is concealing it! And the chambermaid has a queer expression too! Wait, you wretches! We’ll ferret it all out!”

In the evening Chubikoff and his deputy, lit on their road by the pale moon, wended their way homeward. They sat in their carriage and thought over the results of the day. Both were tired and kept silent. Chubikoff was always unwilling to talk while traveling, and the talkative Dukovski remained silent, to fall in with the elder man’s humor. But at the end of their journey the deputy could hold in no longer, and said:

“It is quite certain,” he said, “that Nicholas had something to do with the matter. Non dubitandum est! You can see by his face what sort of a case he is! His alibi betrays him, body and bones. But it is also certain that he did not set the thing going. He was only the stupid hired tool. You agree? And the humble Psyekoff was not without some slight share in the matter. His dark blue breeches, his agitation, his lying behind the stove in terror after the murder, his alibi and–Aquilina–“

“‘Grind away, Emilian; it’s your week!’ So, according to you, whoever knew Aquilina is the murderer! Hothead! You ought to be sucking a bottle, and not handling affairs! You were one of Aquilina’s admirers yourself–does it follow that you are implicated too?”

“Aquilina was cook in your house for a month. I am saying nothing about that! The night before that Saturday I was playing cards with you, and saw you, otherwise I should be after you too! It isn’t the woman that matters, old chap! It is the mean, nasty, low spirit of jealousy that matters. The retiring young man was not pleased when they got the better of him, you see! His vanity, don’t you see? He wanted revenge. Then, those thick lips of his suggest passion. So there you have it: wounded self-love and passion. That is quite enough motive for a murder. We have two of them in our hands; but who is the third? Nicholas and Psyekoff held him, but who smothered him? Psyekoff is shy, timid, an all- round coward. And Nicholas would not know how to smother with a pillow. His sort use an ax or a club. Some third person did the smothering; but who was it?”