"Tell us and we will go away. Otherwise we . . ."
"What do you want with him?"
"What is the object of such questions, madam? We ask you for information. You are trembling, confused. . . . Yes, he has been murdered, and if you will have it, murdered by you! Your accomplices have betrayed you!"
The police superintendent's wife turned pale.
"Come along," she said quietly, wringing her hands. "He is hidden in the bath-house. Only for God's sake, don't tell my husband! I implore you! It would be too much for him."
The superintendent's wife took a big key from the wall, and led her visitors through the kitchen and the passage into the yard. It was dark in the yard. There was a drizzle of fine rain. The superintendent's wife went on ahead. Tchubikov and Dyukovsky strode after her through the long grass, breathing in the smell of wild hemp and slops, which made a squelching sound under their feet. It was a big yard. Soon there were no more pools of slops, and their feet felt ploughed land. In the darkness they saw the silhouette of trees, and among the trees a little house with a crooked chimney.
"This is the bath-house," said the superintendent's wife, "but, I implore you, do not tell anyone."
Going up to the bath-house, Tchubikov and Dyukovsky saw a large padlock on the door.
"Get ready your candle-end and matches," Tchubikov whispered to his assistant.
