“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 . . .  What can I do?  Oh, no, no . . . not a word . . . of my brother!  I would rather die than speak!”

Marya Ivanovna burst into tears and went away into another room.  The officials looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders, and beat a retreat.

“A devil of a woman!” said Dyukovsky, swearing as they went out of the big house.  “Apparently she knows something and is concealing it.  And there is something peculiar in the maid-servant’s expression too. . . .  You wait a bit, you devils!  We will get to the bottom of it all!”

In the evening, Tchubikov and his assistant were driving home by the light of a pale-faced moon; they sat in their waggonette, summing up in their minds the incidents of the day.  Both were exhausted and sat silent.  Tchubikov never liked talking on the road.  In spite of his talkativeness, Dyukovsky held his tongue in deference to the old man.  Towards the end of the journey, however, the young man could endure the silence no longer, and began: 

“That Nikolashka has had a hand in the business,” he said, “non dubitandum est.  One can see from his mug too what sort of a chap he is. . . .  His alibi gives him away hand and foot.  There is no doubt either that he was not the instigator of the crime.  He was only the stupid hired tool.  Do you agree?  The discreet Psyekov plays a not unimportant part in the affair too.  His blue trousers, his embarrassment, his lying on the stove from fright after the murder, his alibi, and Akulka.”

“Keep it up, you’re in your glory!  According to you, if a man knows Akulka he is the murderer.  Ah, you hot-head!  You ought to be sucking your bottle instead of investigating cases!  You used to be running after Akulka too, does that mean that you had a hand in this business?”

“Akulka was a cook in your house for a month, too, but . . .  I don’t say anything.  On that Saturday night I was playing cards with you, I saw you, or I should be after you too.  The woman is not the point, my good sir.  The point is the nasty, disgusting, mean feeling. . . .  The discreet young man did not like to be cut out, do you see.  Vanity, do you see. . . .  He longed to be revenged.  Then . . .  His thick lips are a strong indication of sensuality.  Do you remember how he smacked his lips when he compared Akulka to Nana?  That he is burning with passion, the scoundrel, is beyond