Fenya was sitting with her grandmother, the old cook, Matryona, in the kitchen when “the captain” ran in. Fenya uttered a piercing shriek on seeing him.
“You scream?” roared Mitya, “where is she?”
But without giving the terror‐stricken Fenya time to utter a word, he fell all of a heap at her feet.
“Fenya, for Christ’s sake, tell me, where is she?”
“I don’t know. Dmitri Fyodorovitch, my dear, I don’t know. You may kill me but I can’t tell you.” Fenya swore and protested. “You went out with her yourself not long ago—”
“She came back!”
“Indeed she didn’t. By God I swear she didn’t come back.”
“You’re lying!” shouted Mitya. “From your terror I know where she is.”
He rushed away. Fenya in her fright was glad she had got off so easily. But she knew very well that it was only that he was in such haste, or she might not have fared so well. But as he ran, he surprised both Fenya and old Matryona by an unexpected action. On the table stood a brass mortar, with a pestle in it, a small brass pestle, not much more than six inches long. Mitya already had opened the door with one hand when, with the other, he snatched up the pestle, and thrust it in his side‐pocket.
“Oh, Lord! He’s going to murder some one!” cried Fenya, flinging up her hands.