"Well then, what are you so excited about?"
"I—Ah God——!"
"I'll tell you," said the policeman roughly; "you chatter because you're a silly old man. Now then, clear out!"
He blew a thick smoke cloud from the corner of his mouth, and turned his back on the old man. But Jeremy was not to be kept back, and spoke on quickly, tearfully, gesticulating with his hands.
Ilya, pale, with wide eyes, had wandered about the court, and now stood beside a group composed of the coachman, Makar, the cobbler, Perfishka, and Matiza, and a couple of other women from the attics.
"Before she was married even she used to carry on with the others, my dear," said one of the women. "I know well enough. Why, Pashka isn't Savel's son, his father was a teacher, who lived with Malafyeyev the merchant—he was always drunk."
"You mean the one who shot himself?" asked Perfishka.
"Right. She got herself mixed up with him."
"All the same, he had no right to kill her," said Makar judicially; "that is a bit too much. Suppose he kills his wife, and I kill mine, and every one——"
"That would be jolly work for the police," said the cobbler. "My old woman's been no good for ever so long, but I put up with it."