Dyukovsky flushed crimson, walked out, and slammed the door.

“A clever fellow, the rogue,” Tchubikov muttered, looking after him.  “Ve-ery clever!  Only inappropriately hasty.  I shall have to buy him a cigar-case at the fair for a present.”

Next morning a lad with a big head and a hare lip came from Klyauzovka.  He gave his name as the shepherd Danilko, and furnished a very interesting piece of information.

“I had had a drop,” said he.  “I stayed on till midnight at my crony’s.  As I was going home, being drunk, I got into the river for a bathe.  I was bathing and what do I see!  Two men coming along the dam carrying something black.  ‘Tyoo!’ I shouted at them.  They were scared, and cut along as fast as they could go into the Makarev kitchen-gardens.  Strike me dead, if it wasn’t the master they were carrying!”

Towards evening of the same day Psyekov and Nikolashka were arrested and taken under guard to the district town.  In the town they were put in the prison tower.

II

Twelve days passed.

It was morning.  The examining magistrate, Nikolay Yermolaitch, was sitting at a green table at home, looking through the papers, relating to the “Klyauzov case”; Dyukovsky was pacing up and down the room restlessly, like a wolf in a cage.

“You are convinced of the guilt of Nikolashka and Psyekov,” he said, nervously pulling at his youthful beard.  “Why is it you refuse to be convinced of the guilt of Marya Ivanovna?  Haven’t you evidence enough?”

“I don’t say that I don’t believe in it.  I am convinced of it, but somehow I can’t believe it. . . .  There is no real evidence.  It’s all theoretical, as it were. . . .  Fanaticism and one thing and another. . . .”

“And you must have an axe and bloodstained sheets! . . .  You lawyers!  Well, I will prove it to you then!  Do give up your slip-shod attitude to the psychological aspect of the case.  Your Marya Ivanovna ought to be in Siberia!  I’ll prove it.  If theoretical proof is not enough for you, I have something material. . . .  It will show you how right my theory is!  Only let me go about a little!”

“What are you talking about?”

“The Swedish match!  Have you forgotten?  I haven’t forgotten it!  I’ll find out who struck it in the murdered man’s room!  It was not struck by Nikolashka, nor by Psyekov, neither of whom turned out to have matches when searched, but a third person, that is Marya Ivanovna.  And I will prove it! . . .  Only let me drive about the district, make some inquiries. . . .”

“Oh, very well, sit down. . . .  Let us proceed to the examination.”

Dyukovsky sat down to the table, and thrust his long nose into the papers.

“Bring in Nikolay Tetchov!” cried the examining magistrate.

Nikolashka was brought in.  He was pale and thin as a chip.  He was trembling.