“There it is! . . .” he said to Psyekov, “there it is! . . . a gentleman, and a well-to-do one, too . . . a favourite of the gods, one may say, to use Pushkin’s expression, and what has he made of it?  Nothing!  He gave himself up to drinking and debauchery, and . . . here now . . . he has been murdered!”

Two hours later the examining magistrate drove up.  Nikolay Yermolaitch Tchubikov (that was the magistrate’s name), a tall, thick-set old man of sixty, had been hard at work for a quarter of a century.  He was known to the whole district as an honest, intelligent, energetic man, devoted to his work.  His invariable companion, assistant, and secretary, a tall young man of six and twenty, called Dyukovsky, arrived on the scene of action with him.

“Is it possible, gentlemen?” Tchubikov began, going into Psyekov’s room and rapidly shaking hands with everyone.  “Is it possible?  Mark Ivanitch?  Murdered?  No, it’s impossible!  Imposs-i-ble!”

“There it is,” sighed the superintendent

“Merciful heavens!  Why I saw him only last Friday.  At the fair at Tarabankovo!  Saving your presence, I drank a glass of vodka with him!”

“There it is,” the superintendent sighed once more.

They heaved sighs, expressed their horror, drank a glass of tea each, and went to the lodge.

“Make way!” the police inspector shouted to the crowd.

On going into the lodge the examining magistrate first of all set to work to inspect the door into the bedroom.  The door turned out to be made of deal, painted yellow, and not to have been tampered with.  No special traces that might have served as evidence could be found.  They proceeded to break open the door.

“I beg you, gentlemen, who are not concerned, to retire,” said the examining magistrate, when, after long banging and cracking, the door yielded to the axe and the chisel.  “I ask this in the interests of the investigation. . . .  Inspector, admit no one!”

Tchubikov, his assistant, and the police superintendent opened the door and hesitatingly, one after the other, walked into the room.  The following spectacle met their eyes.  In the solitary window stood a big wooden bedstead with an immense feather bed on it.  On the rumpled feather bed lay a creased and crumpled quilt.  A pillow, in a cotton pillow case—­also much creased, was on the floor.  On a little table beside the bed lay a silver watch, and silver coins to the value of twenty kopecks.  Some sulphur matches lay there too.  Except the bed, the table, and a solitary chair, there was no furniture in the room.  Looking under the bed, the superintendent saw two dozen empty bottles, an old straw hat, and a jar of vodka.  Under the table lay one boot, covered with dust.  Taking a look round the room, Tchubikov frowned and flushed crimson.

“The blackguards!” he muttered, clenching his fists.

“And where is Mark Ivanitch?” Dyukovsky asked quietly.