Now, although Bourgonef, who was not a phrenologist, might be convinced of the absence of ferocious instincts in Ivan, to me, as a phrenologist, the statement was eminently incredible.  All the appearances of his manner were such as to confirm his master’s opinion.  He was quiet, even tender in his attentions.  But the tyrannous influence of ideas and physical impressions cannot be set aside; and no evidence would permanently have kept down my distrust of this man.  When women shriek at the sight of a gun, it is in vain that you solemnly assure them that the gun is not loaded.  “I don’t know,” they reply,—­“at any rate, I don’t like it.”  I was much in this attitude with regard to Ivan.  He might be harmless.  I didn’t know that; what I did know was—­that I didn’t like his looks.

On this night he was moving noiselessly about the room, employed in packing.  Bourgonef’s talk rambled over the old themes; and I thought I had never before met with one of my own age whose society was so perfectly delightful.  He was not so conspicuously my superior on all points that I felt the restraints inevitably imposed by superiority; yet he was in many respects sufficiently above me in knowledge and power to make me eager to have his assent to my views where we differed, and to have him enlighten me where I knew myself to be weak.

In the very moment of my most cordial admiration came a shock.  Ivan, on passing from one part of the room to the other, caught his foot in the strap of the portmanteau and fell.  The small wooden box, something of a glove-box, which he held in his hand at the time, fell on the floor, and falling over, discharged its contents close to Bourgonef’s feet.  The objects which caught my eyes were several pairs of gloves, a rouge-pot and hare’s foot, and a black beard!

By what caprice of imagination was it that the sight of this false beard lying at Bourgonef’s feet thrilled me with horror?  In one lightning-flash I beheld the archway—­the stranger with the startled eyes—­this stranger no longer unknown to me, but too fatally recognized as Bourgonef—­and at his feet the murdered girl!

Moved by what subtle springs of suggestion I know not, but there before me stood that dreadful vision, seen in a lurid light, but seen as clearly as if the actual presence of the objects were obtruding itself upon my eyes.  In the inexpressible horror of this vision my heart seemed clutched with an icy hand.

Fortunately Bourgonef’s attention was called away from me.  He spoke angrily some short sentence, which of course was in Russian, and therefore unintelligible to me.  He then stooped, and picking up the rouge-pot, held it towards me with his melancholy smile.  He was very red in the face; but that may have been either anger or the effect of sudden stooping.  “I see you are surprised at these masquerading follies,” he said in a tone which, though low, was perfectly calm.  “You must not suppose that I beautify my sallow cheeks on ordinary occasions.”