He indicated a chair at a big table covered with a dull red cloth. Ilya sat down, carefully pushing away with his elbow a pile of legal documents lying at the edge of the table. The magistrate noticed the movement, politely moved the papers, and sat down opposite Ilya. Without speaking, he began to turn the leaves of a book, and measured Ilya with sidelong glances. Ilya disliked the silence. He turned away and looked round the room. It was the first time he had seen a place so orderly and so richly furnished. All round the walls hung framed portraits and pictures. In one Christ was represented, walking, lost in thought, His head bowed, alone and sad, among ruins. Corpses of men and scattered weapons lay at his feet, and in the background, a dense black smoke rose up into the sky. Something was burning. Ilya looked long at this picture, and tried to understand what it represented. So much so that he was on the point of asking when suddenly the magistrate shut his book with a bang. Ilya started and looked at him. The magistrate's face wore a weary, dull expression, his lips were depressed oddly at the corners, as though some one had hurt his feelings. "Well," he said, and tapped the table with his finger, "you are Ilya Jakovlevitch Lunev, aren't you?" "Yes." "You can guess why I have summoned you?" "No," answered Ilya, and took another fleeting look at the picture. Then his eyes travelled over the solid, fine furniture, and he was conscious of the perfume the magistrate had been using. It distracted his thoughts and calmed him to observe his surroundings, and envy rose in his heart. "This is how distinguished people live." The thought went through his head. "It must be very profitable to catch thieves and murderers. I wonder what he gets." "You can't guess?" repeated the magistrate. "Has Olympiada said nothing to you?" "No. It's some time since I saw her." The magistrate threw himself back in his chair, and the corners of his lips went down. "How long?" he asked. "I don't know, eight or nine days perhaps." "Ah! is that so? tell me, did you often meet old Poluektov at her house?" "The old man who was murdered a little while ago?" asked Ilya, and looked his questioner in the eyes. "Yes, that's the man." "I never met him." "Never?" "Never." The magistrate fired off his questions quickly with a certain nonchalance, and when Ilya, who answered very cautiously, was slow to reply, he drummed impatiently on the table with his fingers. "You knew that Olympiada Petrovna was kept by Poluektov?" he asked suddenly, and looked sharply through his spectacles. Ilya reddened at the glance, which seemed in some way to wound him. "No," he said in a dull tone. "Oh! yes, she was kept by him," repeated the magistrate, angrily,--"to my thinking that is not good," he added, as he saw Ilya about to answer. "How should there be anything good in it?" said Ilya softly, at length. "True." But Ilya said no more.