egan rubbing his left eye. Dyukovsky
fastened his eyes upon him, detected his confusion, and started.
He saw on the steward's legs dark blue trousers which he had not
previously noticed. The trousers reminded him of the blue threads
found on the burdock. Tchubikov in his turn glanced suspiciously
at Psyekov.

"You can go!" he said to Nikolashka. "And now allow me to put one
question to you, Mr. Psyekov. You were here, of course, on the
Saturday of last week?

"Yes, at ten o'clock I had supper with Mark Ivanitch."

"And afterwards?"

Psyekov was confused, and got up from the table.

"Afterwards . . . afterwards . . . I really don't remember," he
muttered. "I had drunk a good deal on that occasion. . . . I can't
remember where and when I went to bed. . . . Why do you all look
at me like that? As though I had murdered him!"

"Where did you wake up?"

"I woke up in the servants' kitchen on the stove . . . . They can
all confirm that. How I got on to the stove I can't say. . . ."

"Don't disturb yourself . . . Do you know Akulina?"

"Oh well, not particularly."

"Did she leave you for Klyauzov?"

"Yes. . . . Yefrem, bring some more mushrooms! Will you have some
tea, Yevgraf Kuzmitch?"

There followed an oppressive, painful silence that lasted for some
five minutes. Dyukovsky held his tongue, and kept his piercing eyes
on Psyekov's face, which gradually turned pale. The silence was
broken by Tchubikov.

"We must go to the big house," he said, "and speak to the deceased's
sister, Marya Ivanovna. She may give us some evidence."

Tchubikov and his assistant thanked Psyekov for the lunch, then
went off to the big house. They found Klyauzov's sister, a maiden
lady of five and forty, on her knees before a high family shrine
of ikons. When she saw portfolios and caps adorned with cockades
in her visitors' hands, she turned pale.

"First of all, I must offer an apology for disturbing your devotions,
so to say," the gallant Tchubikov began with a scrape. "We have
come to you with a request. You have heard, of course, already. . . .
There is a suspicion that your brother has somehow been murdered.
God's will, you know. . . . Death no one can escape, neither Tsar
nor ploughman. Can you not assist us with some fact, something that
will throw light?"

"Oh, do not ask me!" said Marya Ivanovna, turning whiter still, and
hiding her face in her hands. "I can tell you nothing! Nothing! I
implore you! I can say nothing .