Dyukovsky held the candle-end to the face of the unknown and uttered a shriek.  In the crimson nose, in the ruffled, uncombed hair, in the pitch-black moustaches of which one was jauntily twisted and pointed insolently towards the ceiling, he recognised Cornet Klyauzov.

“You. . . .  Mark . . .  Ivanitch!  Impossible!”

The examining magistrate looked up and was dumbfoundered.

“It is I, yes. . . .  And it’s you, Dyukovsky!  What the devil do you want here?  And whose ugly mug is that down there?  Holy Saints, it’s the examining magistrate!  How in the world did you come here?”

Klyauzov hurriedly got down and embraced Tchubikov.  Olga Petrovna whisked out of the door.

“However did you come?  Let’s have a drink!—­dash it all!  Tra-ta-ti-to-tom . . . .  Let’s have a drink!  Who brought you here, though?  How did you get to know I was here?  It doesn’t matter, though!  Have a drink!”

Klyauzov lighted the lamp and poured out three glasses of vodka.

“The fact is, I don’t understand you,” said the examining magistrate, throwing out his hands.  “Is it you, or not you?”

“Stop that. . . .  Do you want to give me a sermon?  Don’t trouble yourself!  Dyukovsky boy, drink up your vodka!  Friends, let us pass the . . .  What are you staring at . . . ?  Drink!”

“All the same, I can’t understand,” said the examining magistrate, mechanically drinking his vodka.  “Why are you here?”

“Why shouldn’t I be here, if I am comfortable here?”

Klyauzov sipped his vodka and ate some ham.

“I am staying with the superintendent’s wife, as you see.  In the wilds among the ruins, like some house goblin.  Drink!  I felt sorry for her, you know, old man!  I took pity on her, and, well, I am living here in the deserted bath-house, like a hermit. . . .  I am well fed.  Next week I am thinking of moving on. . . .  I’ve had enough of it. . . .”

“Inconceivable!” said Dyukovsky.

“What is there inconceivable in it?”

“Inconceivable!  For God’s sake, how did your boot get into the garden?”

“What boot?”

“We found one of your boots in the bedroom and the other in the garden.”

“And what do you want to know that for?  It is not your business.  But do drink, dash it all.  Since you have waked me up, you may as well drink!  There’s an interesting tale about that boot, my boy.  I didn’t want to come to Olga’s.  I didn’t feel inclined, you know, I’d had a drop too much. . . .  She came under the window and began scolding me. . . .  You know how women . . . as a rule.  Being drunk, I up and flung my boot at her.  Ha-ha! . . .  ‘Don’t scold,’ I said.  She clambered in at the window, lighted the lamp, and gave me a good drubbing, as I was drunk.  I have plenty to eat here. . . .  Love, vodka, and good things!  But where are you off to?  Tchubikov, where are you off to?”

The examining magistrate spat on the floor and walked out of the bath-house.  Dyukovsky followed him with his head hanging.  Both got into the waggonette in silence and drove off.  Never had the road seemed so long and dreary.  Both were silent.  Tchubikov was shaking with anger all the way.  Dyukovsky hid his face in his collar as though he were afraid the darkness and the drizzling rain might read his shame on his face.