“And what other peasant was standing with you just now?”

“Doútlof.”

“Ah! and you too, Semyón! Come along!”

Having drawn near, Doútlof, by the light of a lantern which the coachman was carrying, recognized Egór Miháylovitch and a short man with a cockade on his cap, dressed in a long uniform overcoat. This was the police-officer.

“Here, this old man will also come with us,” said Egór Miháylovitch on seeing him. The old man felt a bit uncomfortable, but it could not be helped.

“And you, Efím⁠—you’re a young lad! Run up into the garret where he’s hanged himself, and put the ladder straight for his Honour to mount.”

Efím, whom nothing could have induced to approach the serfs’ house, now ran towards it, clattering with his bark shoes as if they were clogs.