Razumov ceased to grin.
“That is his name,” he said unnecessarily loud. “Victor Victorovitch Haldin—a student.”
The General shifted his position a little.
“How is he dressed? Would you have the goodness to tell me?”
Razumov angrily described Haldin’s clothing in a few jerky words. The General stared all the time, then addressing the Prince—
“We were not without some indications,” he said in French. “A good woman who was in the street described to us somebody wearing a dress of the sort as the thrower of the second bomb. We have detained her at the Secretariat, and every one in a Tcherkess coat we could lay our hands on has been brought to her to look at. She kept on crossing herself and shaking her head at them. It was exasperating....” He turned to Razumov, and in Russian, with friendly reproach—
“Take a chair, Mr. Razumov—do. Why are you standing?”
Razumov sat down carelessly and looked at the General.
“This goggle-eyed imbecile understands nothing,” he thought.
The Prince began to speak loftily.