The examining magistrate ordered Nicholas to be brought.  Nicholas, a lanky young fellow, with a long, freckled nose, narrow-chested, and wearing an old jacket of his master’s, entered Psyekoff’s room, and bowed low before the magistrate.  His face was sleepy and tear-stained.  He was tipsy and could hardly keep his feet.

“Where is your master?” Chubikoff asked him.

“Murdered! your worship!”

As he said this, Nicholas blinked and began to weep.

“We know he was murdered.  But where is he now?  Where is his body?”

“They say he was dragged out of the window and buried in the garden!”

“Hum!  The results of the investigation are known in the kitchen already!—­That’s bad!  Where were you, my good fellow, the night the master was murdered?  Saturday night, that is.”

Nicholas raised his head, stretched his neck, and began to think.

“I don’t know, your worship,” he said.  “I was drunk and don’t remember.”

“An alibi!” whispered Dukovski, smiling, and rubbing his hands.

“So-o!  And why is there blood under the master’s window?”

Nicholas jerked his head up and considered.

“Hurry up!” said the Captain of Police.

“Right away!  That blood doesn’t amount to anything, your worship!  I was cutting a chicken’s throat.  I was doing it quite simply, in the usual way, when all of a sudden it broke away and started to run.  That is where the blood came from.”

Ephraim declared that Nicholas did kill a chicken every evening, and always in some new place, but that nobody ever heard of a half-killed chicken running about the garden, though of course it wasn’t impossible.

“An alibi,” sneered Dukovski; “and what an asinine alibi!”

“Did you know Aquilina?”

“Yes, your worship, I know her.”

“And the master cut you out with her?”

“Not at all. He cut me out—­Mr. Psyekoff there, Ivan Mikhailovitch; and the master cut Ivan Mikhailovitch out.  That is how it was.”

Psyekoff grew confused and began to scratch his left eye.  Dukovski looked at him attentively, noted his confusion, and started.  He noticed that the director had dark blue trousers, which he had not observed before.  The trousers reminded him of the dark blue threads found on the burdock.  Chubikoff in his turn glanced suspiciously at Psyekoff.

“Go!” he said to Nicholas.  “And now permit me to put a question to you, Mr. Psyekoff.  Of course you were here last Saturday evening?”

“Yes!  I had supper with Marcus Ivanovitch about ten o’clock.”

“And afterwards?”

“Afterwards—­afterwards—­Really, I do not remember,” stammered Psyekoff.  “I had a good deal to drink at supper.  I don’t remember when or where I went to sleep.  Why are you all looking at me like that, as if I was the murderer?”

“Where were you when you woke up?”