"What do you mean?" asked the magistrate.
"I say that, according to my idea, he died from being unaccustomed to the complaint from which he was suffering."
"H'm! Yes. Had he been ill long?"
"It would be better to bring him over here; one can't see anything in there," suggested the doctor in a bored voice. "There may be some marks on him."
"Go and call someone to carry him out!" the police officer ordered Kouvalda.
"Call them in yourself. I don't mind his staying here," retorted the captain coolly.
"Be off with you," shouted the police officer savagely.
"Easy there!" threw back Kouvalda, not stirring from his place, speaking with cool insolence and showing his teeth.
"Damn you!" roared the police officer, his face suffused with blood from suppressed rage. "You shall remember this!"—
"Good-day to you, honourable gentlemen!" said the oily, insinuating voice of Petounnikoff, as he appeared in the doorway. Scrutinising rapidly the faces of the bystanders, he suddenly stopped, shuddered, drew back a step, and taking off his cap, crossed himself devoutly. Then a vicious smile of triumph spread over his countenance, and looking hard at the captain, he asked in a respectful tone, "What is the matter here? No one has been killed, I hope."