In the alehouse Ilya took a seat near the window. From this window, as he knew, the church could be seen next to Poluektov's shop. But now all was covered with a white curtain. Ilya watched attentively how the flakes slowly slid past the window and settled on the ground, covering the footsteps of the wayfarers as with a thick carpet. His heart beat strongly and full of life, but easily. He sat and waited for what should befall, and the time seemed to pass slowly. When the waiter brought him tea he could not refrain from asking, "Well, how goes the neighbourhood? anything new?" "It's got warmer, much warmer," answered the other quickly and hurried away. Ilya waited and waited, he felt as though he were weary and fell into a doze. He poured out a glass of tea, but did not drink it, sat still, and thought of nothing. Suddenly he felt hot; he unbuttoned the collar of his overcoat, and shuddered as his hands touched his chin. It felt as though these were not his hands but the strange cold hands of an enemy that had touched him. He held them up and observed his fingers attentively--his hands were clean, but the thought came to him that he must wash them very carefully with soap. "Poluektov has been murdered!" cried some one suddenly in the bar. Ilya sprang up from his chair as though the cry had been addressed to him. But all the other customers also were in commotion and rushed to the door, pulling on their caps. Ilya threw a ten-kopeck piece on the counter, slung his box over his shoulder, and followed in the same haste as the others. Already a big crowd had collected before the shop of the money-changer. Policemen moved up and down, and full of officious zeal shouted at the people; the bearded one with whom Ilya had spoken was there too. He stood in the doorway, keeping back the crowd that pressed towards it, regarded every one with troubled eyes, and passed his hand constantly over his left cheek that seemed redder than the right. Ilya found a place near him and listened to the remarks of the crowd. Next him stood a tall, black-bearded merchant with a stern face, who listened with knitted brows to an old man in a fox-skin coat, who was relating in a lively way: "The errand boy comes to the house and thinks his master has fainted. He runs to Peter Stepanovitch. 'Ah!' he says, 'come quick to our house, the master is ill.' Naturally Peter hurries off, and when he comes in he sees the old man is dead. A pretty business! and think of the audacity, in broad day, in such a busy street, it's past belief!" The black-bearded merchant gave a low cough, and said severely: "It is the finger of God! Evidently the Lord would not receive his repentance." Lunev pressed forward to look again at the face of the merchant and struck him with his box. The merchant called out, pushing him away with his elbow and regarding him angrily: