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"Never mind, never mind, don't be frightened. We will say that one of the springs has broken." Tchubikov and Dyukovsky were met in the doorway by a tall, plump woman of three and twenty, with eyebrows as black as pitch and full red lips. It was Olga Petrovna herself. "Ah, how very nice," she said, smiling all over her face. "You are just in time for supper.
"Eureka, Nikolay Yermolaitch! I can't understand how it is it didn't occur to me before. Do you know who the third is?" "Do leave off, please! There's supper ready. Sit down to supper!" Tchubikov and Dyukovsky sat down to supper.
"It is as clear as twice two makes four that the murder was committed not for mercenary motives." "It was committed by a man of the educated class," Dyukovsky put in. "From what do you draw that conclusion?" "I base it on the Swedish match which the peasants about here have not learned to use yet. Such matches are only used by landowners and not by all of them.
Under the same bush was found a boot, which turned out to be the fellow to the one found in the bedroom. "This is an old stain of blood," said Dyukovsky, examining the stain. At the word "blood," the doctor got up and lazily took a cursory glance at the stain. "Yes, it's blood," he muttered. "Then he wasn't strangled since there's blood," said Tchubikov, looking malignantly at Dyukovsky.
We will get to the bottom of it all!" In the evening, Tchubikov and his assistant were driving home by the light of a pale-faced moon; they sat in their waggonette, summing up in their minds the incidents of the day. Both were exhausted and sat silent. Tchubikov never liked talking on the road. In spite of his talkativeness, Dyukovsky held his tongue in deference to the old man.
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.
"At last he has admitted it!" said Tchubikov, stretching at his ease. "He has given himself away! How neatly I caught him there." "And he didn't deny the woman in black!" said Dyukovsky, laughing. "I am awfully worried over that Swedish match, though! I can't endure it any longer. Good-bye! I am going!" Dyukovsky put on his cap and went off. Tchubikov began interrogating Akulka.
"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!
Akulka declared that she knew nothing about it. . . . "I have lived with you and with nobody else!" she said. At six o'clock in the evening Dyukovsky returned. He was more excited than ever. His hands trembled so much that he could not unbutton his overcoat. His cheeks were burning. It was evident that he had not come back without news.
Dyukovsky asked quietly. "I beg you not to put your spoke in," Tchubikov answered roughly. "Kindly examine the floor. This is the second case in my experience, Yevgraf Kuzmitch," he added to the police superintendent, dropping his voice. "In 1870 I had a similar case. But no doubt you remember it. . . . The murder of the merchant Portretov. It was just the same.
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