“Up there, hanging in the garret, so they say,” answered Efím, pointing through the darkness to the roof of the serfs’ house.

Doútlof looked in the direction in which the cudgel pointed, and, though he could see nothing, he puckered his face, screwed up his eyes, and shook his head.

“The police-officer has come,” said Efím. “He’ll be taken down at once. Isn’t it horrible in the night, daddy? Nothing would make me go up at night, even if they ordered me to. If Egór Miháylovitch were to kill me outright I’d not go.⁠ ⁠…”

“The sin⁠ ⁠… oh, the sin of it!” Doútlof kept repeating, evidently for form’s sake, and not even thinking what he was saying. He was about to continue his way, but the voice of Egór Miháylovitch stopped him.

“Hi! watchman! Come here!” shouted Egór Miháylovitch from the porch of the office.

Efím answered.