Urbenin cast an alarmed look at me and shrugged his shoulders.
“Whatever the evidence may be,” he said, “you must understand.… Now, could I?… I! Besides whom?! I might be able to kill a quail or a woodcock, but a human being … a woman who was dearer to me than life, my salvation … the very thought of whom illuminates my gloomy nature like the sun.… And suddenly you suspect me!”
Urbenin waved his hand resignedly and sat down again.
“As it is, I long for death, and you wrong me besides! If an unknown functionary wronged me, I'd say nothing, but you, Sergei Petrovich!… May I go away, sir?”
“You may.… I shall examine you again to-morrow, and in the meantime, Pëtr Egorych, I must put you under arrest.… I hope that before to-morrow's examination you will have had time to appreciate the importance of all the evidence there is against you, and you will not waste time uselessly, but confess. I am convinced that Olga Nikolaevna was murdered by you.… I have nothing more to say to you to-day.… You may go.”
Having said this I bent over my papers.… Urbenin looked at me in perplexity, rose, and stretched out his arms in a strange way.
“Are you joking … or serious?” he asked.
“This is no time for joking,” I said. “You may go.”
Urbenin remained standing before me. I looked up at him. He was pale and looked with perplexity at my papers.
“Why are your hands blood-stained, Pëtr Egorych?” I asked.