But at this moment, with a heavy rumble, the last chimney came crashing down, and, in the midst of the cloud of yellow dust that flew up instantly, Harlov—uttering a piercing shriek and lifting his bleeding hands high in the air—turned facing us. Sletkin pointed the gun at him again.
Evlampia pulled him back by the elbow.
‘Don’t interfere!’ he snarled savagely at her.
‘And you—don’t you dare!’ she answered; and her blue eyes flashed menacingly under her scowling brows. ‘Father’s pulling his house down. It’s his own.’
‘You lie: it’s ours!’
‘You say ours; but I say it’s his.’
Sletkin hissed with fury; Evlampia’s eyes seemed stabbing him in the face.
‘Ah, how d’ye do! my delightful daughter!’ Harlov thundered from above. ‘How d’ye do! Evlampia Martinovna! How are you getting on with your sweetheart? Are your kisses sweet, and your fondling?’
‘Father!’ rang out Evlampia’s musical voice.
‘Eh, daughter?’ answered Harlov; and he came down to the very edge of the wall. His face, as far as I could make it out, wore a strange smile, a bright, mirthful—and for that very reason peculiarly strange and evil—smile.… Many years later I saw just the same smile on the face of a man condemned to death.