“Kindly inform us where he is!”

“But how did you find out?  Who told you?”

“We know all about it.  I insist in the name of the law.”

The examining magistrate, encouraged by the lady’s confusion, went up to her.

“Tell us and we will go away.  Otherwise we . . .”

“What do you want with him?”

“What is the object of such questions, madam?  We ask you for information.  You are trembling, confused. . . .  Yes, he has been murdered, and if you will have it, murdered by you!  Your accomplices have betrayed you!”

The police superintendent’s wife turned pale.

“Come along,” she said quietly, wringing her hands.  “He is hidden in the bath-house.  Only for God’s sake, don’t tell my husband!  I implore you!  It would be too much for him.”

The superintendent’s wife took a big key from the wall, and led her visitors through the kitchen and the passage into the yard.  It was dark in the yard.  There was a drizzle of fine rain.  The superintendent’s wife went on ahead.  Tchubikov and Dyukovsky strode after her through the long grass, breathing in the smell of wild hemp and slops, which made a squelching sound under their feet.  It was a big yard.  Soon there were no more pools of slops, and their feet felt ploughed land.  In the darkness they saw the silhouette of trees, and among the trees a little house with a crooked chimney.

“This is the bath-house,” said the superintendent’s wife, “but, I implore you, do not tell anyone.”

Going up to the bath-house, Tchubikov and Dyukovsky saw a large padlock on the door.

“Get ready your candle-end and matches,” Tchubikov whispered to his assistant.

The superintendent’s wife unlocked the padlock and let the visitors into the bath-house.  Dyukovsky struck a match and lighted up the entry.  In the middle of it stood a table.  On the table, beside a podgy little samovar, was a soup tureen with some cold cabbage-soup in it, and a dish with traces of some sauce on it.

“Go on!”

They went into the next room, the bath-room.  There, too, was a table.  On the table there stood a big dish of ham, a bottle of vodka, plates, knives and forks.

“But where is he . . . where’s the murdered man?”

“He is on the top shelf,” whispered the superintendent’s wife, turning paler than ever and trembling.

Dyukovsky took the candle-end in his hand and climbed up to the upper shelf.  There he saw a long, human body, lying motionless on a big feather bed.  The body emitted a faint snore. . . .

“They have made fools of us, damn it all!” Dyukovsky cried.  “This is not he!  It is some living blockhead lying here.  Hi! who are you, damnation take you!”

The body drew in its breath with a whistling sound and moved.  Dyukovsky prodded it with his elbow.  It lifted up its arms, stretched, and raised its head.

“Who is that poking?” a hoarse, ponderous bass voice inquired.  “What do you want?”