Has a writer ever been known to die at his desk, over a page of unwritten paper? I should have thought so. Having written, exhausted himself to the very end, to the last spark of life—he vanishes. Pity I never tried that intoxicating job before.

Well, I will now go on writing about the things that puzzled me.

I walked out of the town, the night was clear and cold, the road was framed by a line of dark trees. I sat down under a tree in the shade and remained there until dawn, until one could hear the creaking of peasants’ carts. I felt ill, there was a dumb emptiness in my heart, a vague flatness in my whole body. I was waiting for something to flare up and glow within me. When Popov died—my indignation died as well. A voice whispered to me—you have killed a man. But I realized that this was a mere dry statement, it did not disturb me. The man had been a traitor. I did not feel like a criminal.

But then, from some depths, a disturbing question suddenly faced me: why, actually, had I forced Popov to strangle himself, so unexpectedly to myself, so hurriedly, as though something had frightened me—not in him, but in myself? As though I were destroying not a criminal, but a witness dangerous to me and not because he was a traitor, but for some other reason? His words kept turning over in my brain: “If there is a struggle—there should be heroes on both sides.” All his cynical little thoughts went on haunting me, queerly familiar, as though I had known and heard of them long ago.

Like flies a number of questions pestered me: how did Popov behave with the police? Did he entertain them with funny anecdotes and ditties? Maybe he even laughed with them at my expense? But what preoccupied me mostly was the hurriedness, the headlong speed with which I had acted, forcing Popov to kill himself.

In this state of estrangement towards myself, in a semi-dream, I was arrested the next day.

The head of the Police Department Simonov said to me in a husky voice, in a pompous and offended tone:

“Look here, Karazin, although Popenko declares that no one is guilty of his death, he was found actually in so unseemly a condition and the wrists of his hands bear such strange marks that it is obvious that he has been hanged and did not hang himself. On the night of his death you stayed with him until after midnight, this has been established. And it coincides perfectly with the moment of Popenko’s death. Furthermore: dactyloscopic investigation will confirm that the fingerprints on the glass ashtray were yours. I understand very well of course what it was that you found out about Popenko, he himself had guessed as much. He has been a useful man to us. You will have to pay for his death in the same manner. Besides—there is some foundation for charging you with murder in a fit of jealousy; Alexandra Varvarina will have to be brought into this—do you see?”

I listened in silence. I will not say that I was frightened, but the threat of prosecution on a non-political charge was, of course, unpleasant. Sasha, implicated in a crime of passion? No. That was absurd enough to be almost funny.

Simonov, standing amidst clouds of smoke, went on in a business-like manner: “I suggest that you take Popenko’s place. If you agree to this—you will immediately point out to us a number of people whom it would be useful for us to get rid of. It will then appear that Popenko betrayed his friends and committed suicide out of remorse, whereas you will escape death, not to mention that you might lay the foundation for a fine career. Now I will leave you alone for an hour or two to think it all over. I don’t advise you to linger too long.”

Leaving me and shutting the door of the small cell, Simonov added:

“You have no other way out.”