The inspector rose and gently turning the girl aside, walked into the vestibule.

He had scarcely donned the overcoat handed him by the girl with the bandaged eye and crossed the threshold when the distinct sounds of Clementi’s roulade broke out.

“She was at the Conservatory, but there is disorder in that institution.  But she is very gifted,” said the inspector, walking down the stairs.  “She intends to appear at concerts.”

The inspector and Nekhludoff neared the prison.  The wicket immediately opened at the approach of the inspector.  The wardens standing to attention followed him with their eyes.  Four men with heads half shaved, carrying large vessels, met him in the vestibule, and as they spied him slunk back.  One of them, in a particularly gloomy way, knit his brow, his black eyes flashing fire.

“Of course, her talent must be perfected; it cannot be neglected.  But in a small apartment it is hard, you know,” the inspector continued the conversation without paying any attention to the prisoners, and dragging his tired legs passed into the meeting-room, followed by Nekhludoff.

“Whom do you wish to see?” asked the inspector.

“Bogodukhovskaia.”

“That is from the tower.  You will have to wait a little,” he turned to Nekhludoff.

“Couldn’t you let me see, meantime, the prisoners Menshov—­mother and son—­who are charged with incendiarism?”

“That is from cell 21.  Why, yes; they may be called out.”

“Would you allow me to see the son in his cell?”

“It is quieter in the meeting-room.”

“But it is interesting to see him there.”

“Interesting!”

At that moment a dashing officer, the inspector’s assistant, appeared at a side door.

“Conduct the Prince to Menshov’s cell—­No. 21,” said the inspector to his assistant.  “Then show him to the office.  And I will call—­what is her name?”

“Vera Bogodukhovskaia,” said Nekhludoff.

The inspector’s assistant was a light-haired young officer with dyed mustache, who spread around him the odor of perfume.

“Follow me, please.”  He turned to Nekhludoff with a pleasant smile.  “Does our institution interest you?”

“Yes.  And I am also interested in that man who, I was told, is innocent.”  The assistant shrugged his shoulders.

“Yes, that may be,” he said calmly, courteously admitting the guest into the ill-smelling corridor.  “But they also lie often.  Walk in, please.”

The doors of the cells were open, and some prisoners stood in the corridor.  Slightly nodding to the wardens and looking askance at the prisoners, who either pressed against the walls, entered their cells, or, stopping at the doors, stood erect like soldiers, the assistant escorted Nekhludoff through one corridor into another, on the left, which was iron-bolted.

This corridor was darker and more ill-smelling than the first.  There was a row of cells on each side, the doors of which were locked.  There was a hole in each door—­eyelet, so called—­of about an inch in diameter.  There was no one in this corridor except an old warden with a wrinkled, sad face.