"You see?"
Klimkov walked out into the court, thrust a coin into the watchman's hand, and repeated with impotent stubbornness:
"It's Zarubin, I tell you."
"As you please," said the old man, shrugging his hump. "But if it is so, others would have recognized him. An agent came here yesterday in search of someone who had been killed. He didn't recognize your man either, though why shouldn't he admit it if he did?"
"What agent?"
"A stout man, bald, with an amiable voice."
"Solovyov," guessed Yevsey, observing dully that Zarubin's body was being laid in a white unpainted coffin.
"It doesn't go in," mumbled one of the fellows.
"Bend his legs, the devil!"
"The lid won't close."