The governor looked up at him from under his eyebrows.

“By the way, I must have a word with you, Simion Petrovitch.”

“Yes; what about?”

“I don’t like things at all—”

“What things?”

“You know that peasant who owed you money and came here to complain—”

“Well?”

“He’s hanged himself.”

“When?”

“It’s of no consequence when; but it’s an ugly affair.”