“From there they sent me on here,” added Baklouchin.
“And why?” I asked him.
“Why? You would never guess, Alexander Petrovitch. Because I was in love.”
“Come now. A man is not exiled for that,” I said, with a laugh.
“I should have added,” continued Baklouchin, “that it made me kill a German with a pistol-shot. Was it worth while to send me to hard labour for killing a German? Only think.”
“How did it happen? Tell me the story. It must be a strange one.”
“An amusing story indeed, Alexander Petrovitch.”
“So much the better. Tell me.”
“You wish me to do so? Well, then, listen.”
And he told me the story of his murder. It was not “amusing,” but it was indeed strange.
“This is how it happened,” began Baklouchin; “I had been sent to Riga, a fine, handsome city, which has only one fault,
