“He stole my wife away from me, for one thing, and afterwards beat her to death!” he exclaimed passionately.
I started; what a fit servant for Vladimir Sergheievitch!
“At least, she was punished for her infidelity,” I remarked dryly.
“She was more foolish than wicked at the first,” the fellow protested with a break in his harsh voice; “but that smooth-tongued fellow made her his tool and dupe. He is well placed,” he added vindictively, “a fiend, and the servant of one!” and he shook his fist vehemently at the dark house.
My mind was full of speculations; it was evident that there was something here that did not appear upon the surface.
“You have a cause of complaint, then, against the Boyar Ramodanofsky also?” I asked with an assumption of carelessness.
I could feel rather than see that the man received a shock at my words, suddenly awakening to the fact that he was making admissions that might be dangerous.
“I have said too much,” he stammered. “There is too great a gulf between the boyar and a humble man like me for any quarrel.”
“Ay,” I said, with a purpose, “unless you take to heart your master’s grievances.”
There was a pause. I knew that I had startled the fellow, and he was not sufficiently adroit to escape from the trap into which he had fallen; I could hear his labored breath, and divined that he was in a cold sweat of anxiety and alarm.