"How can I tell?"
The magistrate coughed drily, and rubbed his hands till the fingers cracked.
"Well done," he said in a tone of displeasure. "Splendid!—yes."
And he shifted his chair as though tired.
"Very good; one or two questions now and I'll let you go. Do you know, by any chance, that policeman's name?"
"Jeremin, Matvey Ivanovitch."
The magistrate's tone was bored and indifferent; obviously he did not expect now to hear anything interesting.
Ilya answered, always on the look out for another question like the one as to the time of the murder. Every word echoed in his breast again as though it plucked a tense string in an empty space. But no more cunning questions came.
"As you went down the street that day, did you not meet a tall man in a short fur jacket and black lambs-wool cap? Do you remember?"
"No," said Ilya harshly.