“Ah!” said the policeman, and went on in front.

“Will you buy him off⁠—Elijah, I mean?” asked Egór Miháylovitch.

“How am I to buy him off? Will there be money enough? And perhaps it’s not the right time.⁠ ⁠…”

“Well, you know best,” said the steward, and they both followed the police-officer. They approached the serfs’ house, where the smelly watchmen stood waiting with a lantern in the passage. Doútlof followed them. The watchmen looked guilty: perhaps because of the smell they were spreading; for they had done nothing wrong. All were silent.

“Where?” asked the police-officer.

“Here,” said Egór Miháylovitch in a whisper. “Efím,” he added, “you’re a young lad⁠ ⁠… go on in front with the lantern.”