"
"Pavel Vlasov?" inquired the officer, screwing up his eyes; and when
Pavel silently nodded his head, he announced, twirling his mustache:
"I have to make a search in your house. Get up, old woman!"
"Who is there?" he asked, turning suddenly and making a dash for
the door.
"Your name?" His voice was heard from the other room.
Two other men came in from the porch: the old smelter Tveryakov
and his lodger, the stoker Rybin, a staid, dark-colored peasant.
He said in a thick, loud voice:
"Good evening, Nilovna."
She dressed herself, all the while speaking to herself in a low
voice, so as to give herself courage:
"What sort of a thing is this? They come at night. People are
asleep and they come----"
The room was close, and for some reason smelled strongly of shoe
blacking. Two gendarmes and the village police commissioner,
Ryskin, their heavy tread resounding on the floor, removed the books
from the shelves and put them on the table before the officer. Two
others rapped on the walls with their fists, and looked under the
chairs. One man clumsily clambered up on the stove in the corner.
Nikolay's pockmarked face became covered with red patches, and his
little gray eyes were steadfastly fixed upon the officer.
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