“The real culprit is not in it.…”
Kamyshev made large eyes and rose.
“Candidly speaking, I don't understand you,” he said after a short pause. “If you do not consider the man who commits murder and strangles a real culprit, then.… I don't know who ought to be considered culpable. Criminals are, of course, the product of society, and society is guilty, but.… if one is to devote oneself to the higher considerations one must cease writing novels and write reports.”
“Akh, what sort of higher considerations are there here! It was not Urbenin who committed the murder!”
“How so?” Kamyshev asked, approaching nearer to me.
“Not Urbenin!”
“Perhaps. Errare humanum est—and magistrates are not perfect: there are often errors of justice under the moon. You consider that we were mistaken?”
“No, you did not make a mistake; you wished to make a mistake.”
“Forgive me, I again do not understand,” and Kamyshev smiled: “If you find that the inquest led to a mistake, and even, if I understand you right, to a premeditated mistake, it would be interesting to know your point of view. Who was the murderer in your opinion?”
“You!”