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Updated: May 27, 2025
Yevgraf Ivanovitch, who had not taken off his clothes or gone to bed, was standing by the window, drumming on the panes. "Good-bye; I am going," said his son. "Good-bye... the money is on the round table..." his father answered, without turning round. A cold, hateful rain was falling as the labourer drove him to the station.
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.
"Well, go," Shiryaev assented; "why are you lingering on here? Pack up and go, and good luck to you." A minute passed in silence. "He must have money for the journey, Yevgraf Ivanovitch," the mother observed in a low voice. "Money? To be sure, you can't go without money. Take it at once, since you need it. You could have had it long ago!"
"I woke up in the servants' kitchen on the stove . . . . They can all confirm that. How I got on to the stove I can't say. . . ." "Don't disturb yourself . . . Do you know Akulina?" "Oh well, not particularly." "Did she leave you for Klyauzov?" "Yes. . . . Yefrem, bring some more mushrooms! Will you have some tea, Yevgraf Kuzmitch?"
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