on came off of itself. . . ."

"What powers of deduction! Just look at him!" Tchubikov jeered. "He
brings it all out so pat! And when will you learn not to put your
theories forward? You had better take a little of the grass for
analysis instead of arguing!"

After making the inspection and taking a plan of the locality they
went off to the steward's to write a report and have lunch. At lunch
they talked.

"Watch, money, and everything else . . . are untouched," Tchubikov
began the conversation. "It is as clear as twice two makes four
that the murder was committed not for mercenary motives."

"It was committed by a man of the educated class," Dyukovsky put
in.

"From what do you draw that conclusion?"

"I base it on the Swedish match which the peasants about here have
not learned to use yet. Such matches are only used by landowners
and not by all of them. He was murdered, by the way, not by one but
by three, at least: two held him while the third strangled him.
Klyauzov was strong and the murderers must have known that."

"What use would his strength be to him, supposing he were asleep?"

"The murderers came upon him as he was taking off his boots. He was
taking off his boots, so he was not asleep."

"It's no good making things up! You had better eat your lunch!"

"To my thinking, your honour," said Yefrem, the gardener, as he set
the samovar on the table, "this vile deed was the work of no other
than Nikolashka."

"Quite possible," said Psyekov.

"Who's this Nikolashka?"

"The master's valet, your honour," answered Yefrem. "Who else should
it be if not he? He's a ruffian, your honour! A drunkard, and such
a dissipated fellow! May the Queen of Heaven never bring the like
again! He always used to fetch vodka for the master, he always used
to put the master to bed. . . . Who should it be if not he? And
what's more, I venture to bring to your notice, your honour, he
boasted once in a tavern, the rascal, that he would murder his
master. It's all on account of Akulka, on account of a woman. . . .
He had a soldier's wife. . . . The master took a fancy to her and
got intimate with her, and he . . . was angered by it, to be sure.
He's lolling about in the kitchen now, drunk. He's crying . . .
making out he is grieving over the master . . . ."

"And anyone might be angry over Akulka, certainly," said Psyekov.
"She is a soldier's wife, a peasant woman, but . . . Mark Ivanitch
might well call her Nana. There is