"The safety match proves that to me, for the peasants hereabouts are not yet acquainted with safety matches. Only the landowners use them, and by no means all of them. And it is evident that there was not one murderer, but at least three. Two held him, while one killed him. Klausoff was strong, and the murderers must have known it!" "What good would his strength be, supposing he was asleep?" "The murderers came on him while he was taking off his boots. If he was taking off his boots, that proves that he wasn't asleep!" "Stop inventing your deductions! Better eat!" "In my opinion, your worship," said the gardener Ephraim, setting the samovar on the table, "it was nobody but Nicholas who did this dirty trick!" "Quite possible," said Psyekoff. "And who is Nicholas?" "The master's valet, your worship," answered Ephraim. "Who else could it be? He's a rascal, your worship! He's a drunkard and a blackguard, the like of which Heaven should not permit! He always took the master his vodka and put the master to bed. Who else could it be? And I also venture to point out to your worship, he once boasted at the public house that he would kill the master! It happened on account of Aquilina, the woman, you know. He was making up to a soldier's widow. She pleased the master; the master made friends with her himself, and Nicholas--naturally, he was mad! He is rolling about drunk in the kitchen now. He is crying, and telling lies, saying he is sorry for the master----" The examining magistrate ordered Nicholas to be brought. Nicholas, a lanky young fellow, with a long, freckled nose, narrow-chested, and wearing an old jacket of his master's, entered Psyekoff's room, and bowed low before the magistrate. His face was sleepy and tear-stained. He was tipsy and could hardly keep his feet. "Where is your master?" Chubikoff asked him. "Murdered! your worship!" As he said this, Nicholas blinked and began to weep. "We know he was murdered. But where is he now? Where is his body?" "They say he was dragged out of the window and buried in the garden!" "Hum! The results of the investigation are known in the kitchen already!--That's bad! Where were you, my good fellow, the night the master was murdered? Saturday night, that is." Nicholas raised his head, stretched his neck, and began to think. "I don't know, your worship," he said. "I was drunk and don't remember." "An alibi!" whispered Dukovski, smiling, and rubbing his hands. "So-o! And why is there blood under the master's window?" Nicholas jerked his head up and considered. "Hurry up!" said the Captain of Police. "Right away! That blood doesn't amount to anything, your worship! I was cutting a chicken's throat. I was doing it quite simply, in the usual way, when all of a sudden it broke away and started to run. That is where the blood came from."