very gifted," said the inspector, walking down
the stairs. "She intends to appear at concerts."

The inspector and Nekhludoff neared the prison. The wicket immediately
opened at the approach of the inspector. The wardens standing to
attention followed him with their eyes. Four men with heads half
shaved, carrying large vessels, met him in the vestibule, and as they
spied him slunk back. One of them, in a particularly gloomy way, knit
his brow, his black eyes flashing fire.

"Of course, her talent must be perfected; it cannot be neglected. But
in a small apartment it is hard, you know," the inspector continued
the conversation without paying any attention to the prisoners, and
dragging his tired legs passed into the meeting-room, followed by
Nekhludoff.

"Whom do you wish to see?" asked the inspector.

"Bogodukhovskaia."

"That is from the tower. You will have to wait a little," he turned to
Nekhludoff.

"Couldn't you let me see, meantime, the prisoners Menshov--mother and
son--who are charged with incendiarism?"

"That is from cell 21. Why, yes; they may be called out."

"Would you allow me to see the son in his cell?"

"It is quieter in the meeting-room."

"But it is interesting to see him there."

"Interesting!"

At that moment a dashing officer, the inspector's assistant, appeared
at a side door.

"Conduct the Prince to Menshov's cell--No. 21," said the inspector to
his assistant. "Then show him to the office. And I will call--what is
her name?"

"Vera Bogodukhovskaia," said Nekhludoff.

The inspector's assistant was a light-haired young officer with dyed
mustache, who spread around him the odor of perfume.

"Follow me, please." He turned to Nekhludoff with a pleasant smile.
"Does our institution interest you?"

"Yes. And I am also interested in that man who, I was told, is
innocent." The assistant shrugged his shoulders.

"Yes, that may be," he said calmly, courteously admitting the guest
into the ill-smelling corridor. "But they also lie often. Walk in,
please."

The doors of the cells were open, and some prisoners stood in the
corridor. Slightly nodding to the wardens and looking askance at the
prisoners, who either pressed against the walls, entered their cells,
or, stopping at the doors, stood erect like soldiers, the assistant
escorted Nekhludoff through one corridor into another, on the left,
which was iron-bolted.

This corridor was darker and more ill-smelling than the first. Ther