Aksénof looked and saw a knife covered with blood taken from his bag, and he was frightened.
“And whose blood is that on the knife?”
Aksénof tried to answer, but he could not articulate his words:
“I—I—don’t—know.—I.—That knife—it is—not mine—”
Then the police inspector said: “This morning the merchant was found stabbed to death in his bed. No one except you could have done it. The tavern was locked on the inside, and there was no one in the tavern except yourself. And here is the bloody knife in your bag, and your guilt is evident in your face. Tell me how you killed him and how much money you took from him.” Aksénof swore that he had not done it, that he had not seen the merchant after he had drunken tea with him, that the only money that he had with him—eight thousand rubles—was his own, and that the knife was not his.
But his voice trembled, his face was pale, and he was all quivering with fright, like a guilty person.
The police inspector called the soldiers, commanded them to bind Aksénof and take him to the wagon.
When they took him to the wagon with his feet tied, Aksénof crossed himself and burst into tears.
They confiscated Aksénof’s possessions and his money, and took him to the next city and threw him into prison.
They sent to Vladímir to make inquiries about Aksénof’s character, and all the merchants and citizens of Vladímir declared that Aksénof, when he was young, used to drink and was wild, but that now he was a worthy man. Then he was brought up for judgment. He was sentenced for having killed the merchant and for having robbed him of twenty thousand rubles.