Mikhàïlo appeared at once. He had evidently been gambling with some friends, for he was holding several greasy cards in his hand. He was a sturdy young fellow, with a peculiarly naïve, almost childlike face. He sprang as lightly as a bird down the iron steps, with his strong, bare legs sticking out from a pair of pink cotton trousers much too short for him, and stood before his master, with his belt unfastened, evidently in a hurry to go back to his game. His whole figure and the expression of his face showed that the game was in full swing and had reached an exciting point. “What’s up?” he asked, hastily. “Come over here a minute.” “Tell me what you want. I can hear you from here.” “Come along into the cabin, you wooden figure head! You’ll have time to finish your game afterwards. Come and tell the gentlemen how you killed the old man.” “What the plague!... What did you call me for? I thought.... Is that all you’ve got to talk about? Catch me!...” He turned back to the staircase, but the steward caught him by his shirt. “Hold hard! What a jackass it is! Can’t you answer when you’re asked civilly?” “What’s the good of going over all that nonsense again?” “Who asked you to go over it?... I want you to tell the gentlemen how it happened. You lived with a wood merchant then, didn’t you?” “No, I didn’t. He’d only just taken me on that very day; and I’d never lived there at all——” “All right; he’d just engaged you.... Well, what happened next?” “Nothing at all happened next.... He engaged me, you see, to guard the timber.... He’d got a timber yard; ’twas worth hundreds and thousands.... He’s a millionaire, he is.” “Where did it happen? Where does the merchant live?”