“Forward!”

They went into the next room, where the bath was.  There was a table there also.  On the table was a dish with some ham, a bottle of vodka, plates, knives, forks.

“But where is it—­where is the murdered man?” asked the examining magistrate.

“On the top tier,” whispered Olga Petrovna, still pale and trembling.

Dukovski took the candle in his hand and climbed up to the top tier of the sweating frame.  There he saw a long human body lying motionless on a large feather bed.  A slight snore came from the body.

“You are making fun of us, devil take it!” cried Dukovski.  “That is not the murdered man!  Some live fool is lying here.  Here, whoever you are, the devil take you!”

The body drew in a quick breath and stirred.  Dukovski stuck his elbow into it.  It raised a hand, stretched itself, and lifted its head.

“Who is sneaking in here?” asked a hoarse, heavy bass.  “What do you want?”

Dukovski raised the candle to the face of the unknown, and cried out.  In the red nose, disheveled, unkempt hair, the pitch-black mustaches, one of which was jauntily twisted and pointed insolently toward the ceiling, he recognized the gallant cavalryman Klausoff.

“You—­Marcus—­Ivanovitch?  Is it possible?”

The examining magistrate glanced sharply up at him, and stood spellbound.

“Yes, it is I. That’s you, Dukovski?  What the devil do you want here?  And who’s that other mug down there?  Great snakes!  It is the examining magistrate!  What fate has brought him here?”

Klausoff rushed down and threw his arms round Chubikoff in a cordial embrace.  Olga Petrovna slipped through the door.

“How did you come here?  Let’s have a drink, devil take it!  Tra-ta-ti-to-tum—­let us drink!  But who brought you here?  How did you find out that I was here?  But it doesn’t matter!  Let’s have a drink!”

Klausoff lit the lamp and poured out three glasses of vodka.

“That is—­I don’t understand you,” said the examining magistrate, running his hands over him.  “Is this you or not you!”

“Oh, shut up!  You want to preach me a sermon?  Don’t trouble yourself!  Young Dukovski, empty your glass!  Friends, let us bring this—­What are you looking at?  Drink!”

“All the same, I do not understand!” said the examining magistrate, mechanically drinking off the vodka.  “What are you here for?”

“Why shouldn’t I be here, if I am all right here?”

Klausoff drained his glass and took a bite of ham.

“I am in captivity here, as you see.  In solitude, in a cavern, like a ghost or a bogey.  Drink!  She carried me off and locked me up, and—­well, I am living here, in the deserted bath house, like a hermit.  I am fed.  Next week I think I’ll try to get out.  I’m tired of it here!”

“Incomprehensible!” said Dukovski.

“What is incomprehensible about it?”