Everything went on along the usual lines. The customary stir and
unceremonious bustle, instead of cautious whispering, rose around the
dead body, in preparation for a fashionable funeral. No near relatives
were present except his wife, and she was confined to her room,
half-fainting, half-hysterical. All responsibility fell on the humble
doctor, and he busied himself indefatigably, conscientiously, in the
sweat of his brow, making every effort to omit nothing. But, as always
happens, he omitted the most important thing of all. The early
twilight was already descending on St. Petersburg, shrouded in chilly
mist, when Edouard Vicentevitch Polesski struck his brow in despair;
he had suddenly remembered the keys and the box, committed to his care
by the dying man. At that moment, the body, dressed in full uniform,
with all his regalia, was lying in the great, darkened room on a
table, covered with brocade, awaiting the coffin and the customary
wreaths. The doctor rushed into the empty bedroom. Everything in it
was already in order; the bed stood there, without mattress or
pillows. There was nothing on the dressing table, either.

Where were the keys? Where was the box? The box was standing as
before, untouched, locked. His heart at once felt lighter. But the
keys? No doubt the police would come in a few minutes. It was
astonishing that they had not come already. They would seal
everything. Everything must be in order. Where was Yakov? Probably he
had taken them. Or ... the general's wife?

Polesski rushed to look for the manservant, but could not find him.
There was so much to do; he had gone to buy something, to order
something. "Oh Lord! And the announcement?" he suddenly remembered. It
must be written at once, and sent to the newspapers. He must ask the
general's wife, however, what words he should use. However much he