her through the long grass,
as the odour 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.

Dukovski took the candle in his hand and climbed up to the top tier of
the sweating frame. There he saw a long human body lying motionless on a
large feather bed. A slight snore came from the body.

"You are making fun of us, devil take it!" cried Dukovski. "That is not
the murdered man! Some live fool is lying here. Here, whoever you are,
the devil take you!"

The body drew in a quick breath and stirred. Dukovski stuck his elbow
into it. It raised a hand, stretched itself, and lifted its head.

"Who is sneaking in here?" asked a hoarse, heavy bass. "What do you
want?"

Dukovski raised the candle to the face of the unknown, and cried out. In
the red nose, dishevelled, unkempt hair, the pitch-black moustache, one
of which was jauntily twisted and pointed insolently toward the ceiling,
he recognized the gallant cavalryman Klausoff.

"You--Marcus--Ivanovitch? Is it possible?"

The examining magistrate glanced sharply up at him, and stood
spellbound.

"Yes, it is I. That's you, Dukovski? What the devil do you want here?
And who's that other mug down there? Great snakes! It is the examining
magistrate! What fate has brought him here?"

Klausoff rushed down an