“We are acquainted even from that mad evening, when you dumbfounded all of us with your knowledge of the French language, and when you spoke.  That which you said was, between us, paradoxical; but then, how it was said! ...  To this day I remember the tone of your voice, so warm, expressive ...  And so, Ellena Victorovna,” he turned to Rovinskaya again, sitting down on a small, low chair without a back, “in what can I be of use to you?  I am at your disposal.”

Rovinskaya, with a languid air, again applied the tips of her fingers to her temples.

“Ah, really, I am so upset, my dear Ryazanov,” said she, intentionally extinguishing the sparkle of her magnificent eyes, “and then, my miserable head ...  May I trouble you to pass me the pyramidon what-not from that table ...  Let Mile.  Tamara tell you everything ...  I can not, I am not able to ...  This is so horrible! ...”

Tamara briefly, lucidly, narrated to Ryazanov all the sad history of Jennka’s death; recalled also about the card left with Jennie; and also how the deceased had reverently preserved this card; and —­in passing—­about his promise to help in case of need.

“Of course, of course!” exclaimed Ryanzanov, when she had finished; and at once began pacing the room back and forth with big steps, ruffling and tossing back his picturesque hair through habit.  “You are performing a magnificent, sincere, comradely action!  That is good! ...  That is very good! ...  I am yours ...  You say—­a permit for the funeral ...  Hm ...  God grant me memory! ...”

He rubbed his forehead with his palm.

“Hm ... hm ...  If I’m not mistaken—­Monocanon, rule one hundred seventy ... one hundred seventy ... eight ...  Pardon me, I think I remember it by heart ...  Pardon me! ...  Yes, so!  ’If a man slayeth himself, he shall not be chanted over, nor shall a mass be said for him, unless he were greatly astonied, that is, to wit, out of his mind’...  Hm ...  See St. Timothy Alexandrine ...  And so, my dear miss, the first thing ...  You say, that she was taken down from the noose by your doctor—­i.e., the official city doctor ...  His name? ...”

“Klimenko.”

“It seems I’ve met him somewheres ...  All right ...  Who is the district inspector in your precinct station?”

“Kerbesh.”

“Aha, I know ...  Such a strong, virile fellow, with a red beard in a fan ...  Yes?”

“Yes, that is he.”

“I know him very well!  There, now, is somebody that a sentence to hard labour is hankering after ...  Some ten times he fell into my hands; and always, the skunk, gave me the slip somehow.  Slippery, just like an eel-pout ...  We will have to slip him a little present.  Well, now!  And then the anatomical theatre ...  When do you want to bury her?”

“Really, I don’t know ...  I would like to do it as soon as possible ... if possible, to-day.”