And he suddenly recalled how one day, when he was talking to the bookkeeper in the little office of the Rural Board, a thin, pale gentleman with black hair and dark eyes walked in; he had a disagreeable look in his eyes such as one sees in people who have slept too long after dinner, and it spoilt his delicate, intelligent profile; and the high boots he was wearing did not suit him, but looked clumsy. The bookkeeper had introduced him: “This is our insurance agent.”

“So that was Lesnitsky,⁠ ⁠… this same man,” Lyzhin reflected now.

He recalled Lesnitsky’s soft voice, imagined his gait, and it seemed to him that someone was walking beside him now with a step like Lesnitsky’s.

All at once he felt frightened, his head turned cold.

“Who’s there?” he asked in alarm.

“The conshtable!”

“What do you want here?”

“I have come to ask, your honor⁠—you said this evening that you did not want the elder, but I am afraid he may be angry. He told me to go to him. Shouldn’t I go?”

“That’s enough, you bother me,” said Lyzhin with vexation, and he covered himself up again.

“He may be angry.⁠ ⁠… I’ll go, your honor. I hope you will be comfortable,” and Loshadin went out.

In the passage there was coughing and subdued voices. The witnesses must have returned.

“We’ll let those poor beggars get away early tomorrow,⁠ ⁠…” thought the examining magistrate; “we’ll begin the inquest as soon as it is daylight.”

He began sinking into forgetfulness when suddenly there were steps again, not timid this time but rapid and noisy. There was the slam of a door, voices, the scratching of a match.⁠ ⁠…