Kamyshev looked at me with astonishment, almost with terror, grew very red and stepped back. Then turning away, he went to the window and began to laugh.
“Here's a nice go!” he muttered, breathing on the glass and nervously drawing figures on it.
I watched his hand as he drew, and it appeared to me that I recognized in it the only iron, muscular hand that, with a single effort, would have been able to strangle sleeping Kuz'ma, or mangle Olga's frail body. The thought that I saw before me a murderer filled my soul with unwonted feelings of horror and fear.… not for myself—no!—but for him, for this handsome and graceful giant.… in general for man.…
“You murdered them!” I repeated.
“If you are not joking, allow me to congratulate you on the discovery,” Kamyshev said laughing, but still not looking at me: “However, judging by your trembling voice, and your paleness, it is difficult to suppose that you are joking. What a nervous man you are!”
Kamyshev turned his flushed face towards me and, forcing himself to smile, he continued:
“It is interesting how such an idea could have come into your head! Have I written something like that in my novel? By God, that's interesting.… Tell me, please! It really is interesting once in a lifetime to try what it feels like to be looked upon as a murderer.”
“You are a murderer,” I said, “and you are not able to hide it. In the novel you lied, and now you are proving yourself but a poor actor.”
“This is really quite interesting; upon my word, it would be curious to hear.…”
“If you are curious, then listen.”