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Two from our town—who they are I can’t say—and there are two others, strangers, maybe more besides. I didn’t ask particularly. They’ve set to playing cards, so Timofey said.” “Cards?” “So, maybe they’re not in bed if they’re at cards. It’s most likely not more than eleven.” “Quicker, Andrey! Quicker!” Mitya cried again, nervously.
"He is telling lies!" cried the nephew. "Even now he cannot speak the truth. He is not called Timofey Lukianovitch, prince, but Lukian Timofeyovitch. Now do tell us why you must needs lie about it? Lukian or Timofey, it is all the same to you, and what difference can it make to the prince? He tells lies without the least necessity, simply by force of habit, I assure you."
With a foreboding of something very dreadful in his heart, the watchman, still trembling with terror, opens the gate irresolutely and runs back with his eyes shut. At the turning into the main avenue he hears hurried footsteps, and someone asks him, in a hissing voice: "Is that you, Timofey? Where is Mitka?"
“Where did this cart come from in such a hurry?” he asked Mitya. “I met Andrey as I ran to you, and told him to drive straight here to the shop. There’s no time to lose. Last time I drove with Timofey, but Timofey now has gone on before me with the witch. Shall we be very late, Andrey?” “They’ll only get there an hour at most before us, not even that maybe. I got Timofey ready to start.
The lad instantly recognized him, for Mitya had more than once tipped him. Opening the gate at once, he let him in, and hastened to inform him with a good-humored smile that “Agrafena Alexandrovna is not at home now, you know.” “Where is she then, Prohor?” asked Mitya, stopping short. “She set off this evening, some two hours ago, with Timofey, to Mokroe.” “What for?” cried Mitya.
“But maybe they’re not in bed!” Andrey went on after a pause. “Timofey said they were a lot of them there—” “At the station?” “Not at the posting-station, but at Plastunov’s, at the inn, where they let out horses, too.” “I know. So you say there are a lot of them? How’s that? Who are they?” cried Mitya, greatly dismayed at this unexpected news. “Well, Timofey was saying they’re all gentlefolk.
I drove here with Timofey, and all the way I was thinking how I should meet him, what I should say to him, how we should look at one another. My soul was faint, and all of a sudden it was just as though he had emptied a pail of dirty water over me. He talked to me like a schoolmaster, all so grave and learned; he met me so solemnly that I was struck dumb. I couldn’t get a word in.
Fenya ran noisily into the room, crying out: “Mistress, mistress darling, a messenger has galloped up,” she cried, breathless and joyful. “A carriage from Mokroe for you, Timofey the driver, with three horses, they are just putting in fresh horses.... A letter, here’s the letter, mistress.” A letter was in her hand and she waved it in the air all the while she talked.
When Fetyukovitch had to cross-examine him, he scarcely tried to refute his evidence, but began asking him about an incident at the first carousal at Mokroe, a month before the arrest, when Timofey and another peasant called Akim had picked up on the floor in the passage a hundred roubles dropped by Mitya when he was drunk, and had given them to Trifon Borissovitch and received a rouble each from him for doing so. “Well,” asked the lawyer, “did you give that hundred roubles back to Mr.
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