"Very well; . . . very grateful to you," muttered Sergey Nikanoritch,
taking the money greedily and stuffing it into his pockets. He was
trembling all over, and that was perceptible in spite of the darkness.
"Don't worry yourself, Yakov Ivanitch. . . . What should I chatter
for: I came and went away, that's all I've had to do with it. As
the saying is, I know nothing and I can tell nothing . . ." And at
once he added with a sigh "Cursed life!"

For a minute they stood in silence, without looking at each other.

"So it all came from a trifle, goodness knows how, . . ." said the
waiter, trembling. "I was sitting counting to myself when all at
once a noise. . . . I looked through the door, and just on account
of Lenten oil you. . . . Where is he now?"

"Lying there in the kitchen."

"You ought to take him somewhere. . . . Why put it off?"

Yakov accompanied him to the station without a word, then went home
again and harnessed the horse to take Matvey to Limarovo. He had
decided to take him to the forest of Limarovo, and to leave him
there on the road, and then he would tell everyone that Matvey had
gone off to Vedenyapino and had not come back, and then everyone
would think that he had been killed by someone on the road. He knew
there was no deceiving anyone by this, but to move, to do something,
to be active, was not as agonizing as to sit still and wait. He
called Dashutka, and with her carried Matvey out. Aglaia stayed
behind to clean up the kitchen.