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“What pigs we are,” said Chubikoff, taking hold of the bell, “to disturb a poor woman like this!”

“It’s all right! It’s all right! Don’t get frightened! We can say that we have broken a spring.”

Chubikoff and Dukovski were met at the threshold by a tall buxom woman of three and twenty, with pitch-black brows and juicy red lips. It was Olga Petrovna herself, apparently not the least distressed by the recent tragedy.

“Oh, what a pleasant surprise!” she said, smiling broadly. “You are just in time for supper. Kuzma Petrovitch is not at home. He is visiting the priest, and has stayed late. But we’ll get on without him! Be seated. You have come from the examination?”

“Yes. We broke a spring, you know,” began Chubikoff, entering the sitting room and sinking into an armchair.

“Take her unawares–at once!” whispered Dukovski; “take her unawares!”

“A spring–hum–yes–so we came in.”

“Take her unawares, I tell you! She will guess what the matter is if you drag things out like that.”

“Well, do it yourself as you want. But let me get out of it,” muttered Chubikoff, rising and going to the window.

“Yes, a spring,” began Dukovski, going close to Olga Petrovna and wrinkling his long nose. “We did not drive over here–to take supper with you or–to see Kuzma Petrovitch. We came here to ask you, respected madam, where Marcus Ivanovitch is, whom you murdered!”

“What? Marcus Ivanovitch murdered?” stammered Olga Petrovna, and her broad face suddenly and instantaneously flushed bright scarlet. “I don’t–understand!”

“I ask you in the name of the law! Where is Klausoff? We know all!”

“Who told you?” Olga Petrovna asked in a low voice, unable to endure Dukovski’s glance.

“Be so good as to show us where he is!”

“But how did you find out? Who told you?”

“We know all! I demand it in the name of the law!”

The examining magistrate, emboldened by her confusion, came forward and said:

“Show us, and we will go away. Otherwise, we–“

“What do you want with him?”

“Madam, what is the use of these questions? We ask you to show us! You tremble, you are agitated. Yes, he has been murdered, and, if you must have it, murdered by you! Your accomplices have betrayed you!”

Olga Petrovna grew pale.

“Come!” she said in a low voice, wringing her hands. “I have him– hid–in the bath house! Only for heaven’s sake, do not tell Kuzma Petrovitch. I beg and implore you! He will never forgive me!”

Olga Petrovna took down a big key from the wall, and led her guests through the kitchen and passage to the courtyard. The courtyard was in darkness. Fine rain was falling. Olga Petrovna walked in advance of them. Chubikoff and Dukovski strode behind her through the long grass, as the odor of wild hemp and dishwater splashing under their feet reached them. The courtyard was wide. Soon the dishwater ceased, and they felt freshly broken earth under their feet. In the darkness appeared the shadowy outlines of trees, and among the trees a little house with a crooked chimney.

“That is the bath house,” said Olga Petrovna. “But I implore you, do not tell my brother! If you do, I’ll never hear the end of it!”

Going up to the bath house, Chubikoff and Dukovski saw a huge padlock on the door.

“Get your candle and matches ready,” whispered the examining magistrate to his deputy.

Olga Petrovna unfastened the padlock, and let her guests into the bath house. Dukovski struck a match and lit up the anteroom. In the middle of the anteroom stood a table. On the table, beside a sturdy little samovar, stood a soup tureen with cold cabbage soup and a plate with the remnants of some sauce.

“Forward!”

They went into the next room, where the bath was. There was a table there also. On the table was a dish with some ham, a bottle of vodka, plates, knives, forks.

“But where is it–where is the murdered man?” asked the examining magistrate.

“On the top tier,” whispered Olga Petrovna, still pale and trembling.