Ignatyevich," said Tatiana Nikolayevna. Never before did she call me "dear." Apparently it was necessary to pass for mad to receive this meaningless caress.

"Very good, dear Tatiana Nikolayevna, I'll go," I replied submissively. We three—Alexis also being present—sat in the drawing-room, subsequently the scene of the murder.

"Yes, Anton, you must go without fail," reiterated Alexis in a tone of authority, "or else you might do some mischief."

"What sort of mischief could I do?" I timidly protested before my stern friend.

"Who knows? You may break someone's head."

I fondled in my hand a heavy, cast-iron paper-weight. Looking now at that object, now at Alexis, I asked:

"Head? You say—head?"

"Yes, head. Catch a thing like that on your head and you're done for."

It was becoming interesting. It was precisely the head, and precisely with that thing