'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?
