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Ordynov started and turned pale.
"Well, only fancy, just lately a whole gang of thieves was discovered in that house; that is, would you believe me, a regular band of brigands; smugglers, robbers of all sorts, goodness knows what. Some have been caught but others are still being looked for; the sternest orders have been given. And, can you believe it I do you remember the master of the house, that pious, respectable, worthy-looking old man?"
"WeU?"
"What is one to think of mankind? He was the chief of their gang, the leader. Isn't it absurd?"
Yaroslav Ilyitch spoke with feeling and judged of all man-
kind from one example, because Ysiroslav Ilyitch could not do otherwise, it was his character.
"And they? Murin?" Ordynov articulated in a whisper.
"Ah! Murin, Murin I no, he was a worthy old man, quite respectable . . . but, excuse me, you throw a new light . . . '
"Why? Was he, too, in the gang?"
Ordjmov's heart was ready to buret with impatience.
"However, as you say ..." added Yaroslav Iljdtch, fixing his pewtery eyes on Ordynov—a sign that he was reflecting— "Murin could not have been one of them. Just three weeks ago he went home with his wife to their own parts ... I learned it from the porter, that little Tatar, do you remember?