day his bathhouse burned down,
and in the ashes they discovered the corpse of a man with a fractured
skull. There was a rumour in the village that Shchurov himself had
killed his workman--killed and then burned him. Such things had happened
more than once with the good-looking old man; but similar rumours were
on foot with reference to many a rich man in town--they had all, it
was said, hoarded up their millions by way of robberies, murders and,
mainly, by passing counterfeit money. Foma had heard such stories in his
childhood and he never before considered whether they were true or not.

He also knew that Shchurov had got rid of two wives--one of them died
during the first night of the wedding, in Anany's embraces. Then he took
his son's wife away from him, and his son took to drink for grief and
would have perished in drunkenness had he not come to himself in time
and gone off to save himself in a hermitage, in Irgiz. And when his
mistress-daughter-in-law had passed away, Shchurov took into his house
a dumb beggar-girl, who was living with him to this day, and who had
recently borne him a dead child. On his way to the hotel, where Anany
stayed, Foma involuntarily recalled all this, and felt that Shchurov had
become strangely interesting to him.

When Foma opened the door and stopped respectfully on the threshold
of the small room, whose only window overlooked the rusty roof of the
neighbouring house, he noticed that the old Shchurov had just risen from
sleep, and sitting on his bed, leaning his hands against it, he stared
at the ground; and he was so bent that his long, white beard fell over
his knees. But even bent, he was large.

"Who entered?" asked Anany in a hoarse and angry voice, without lifting
his head.

"I. How do you do, Anany Savvich?"

The old man raised his head slowly and, winking his large eyes, looked
at Foma.

"Ignat's son, is that right?"

"The same."

"Well, come over here, sit down by the window. Let me see how you've
grown up. Will you not have a glass of tea with me?"

"I wouldn't mind."

"Waiter!" cried the old man, expanding his chest, and, taking his beard
in his hand, he began to examine Foma in silence. Foma also looked at
him stealthily.

The old man's lofty forehead was all covered with wrinkles, and its skin
was dark. Gray, curly locks covered his temples and his sharp-pointed
ears; his calm blue eyes lent the upper part of his face a wise and good
expression. But his che