‘Give me an answer, sir,’ exclaimed the Judge angrily, as the suspected man remained dumb. ‘Why did you take your revolver with you to your friend’s house?’
Ivanoff was still silent. The assistants were busy writing. The Judge became more peremptory.
‘Again I ask you: Why did you take your revolver to Riskoff’s house?’
Ivanoff glanced nervously round the room now, and his eyes fell upon his wife. The pitiable sight she presented broke him down, and, covering his face with his hands, he burst into tears, and stammered forth, in a broken, emotional voice, the following reply:
‘I went to my friend to ask him to lend me some money. I took the revolver with me, determining to shoot myself if he refused.’
‘Or shoot him,’ said the Judge, with a sneer.
‘No, no—on my soul and before my God, no!’ cried Ivanoff, raising his hands to heaven.
‘Well, your friend was killed with a bullet fired from this revolver.’ He produced a revolver as he spoke. ‘Do you recognise it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Your name is engraved upon it. It was picked up on the floor of his room. Riskoff had been shot in the back of the head. The murderer, therefore, was behind him.’