Ilya saw the drift of the question. He turned sharp round in his chair full of rage against this man with the shining white linen, the thin fingers, well-tended nails, and gold spectacles in front of piercing dark eyes. Instead of answering, he asked: "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. "Now, listen. I'll read over your statement to you, and you will sign it." He held a sheet of paper covered with writing before his face, and began to read quickly and monotonously. When he had finished, he put a pen in Ilya's hand. Ilya bent down, signed, rose slowly from his chair, and said in a loud, assured voice, looking at the magistrate: "Good-day!" A short, condescending nod was his answer, and the magistrate bent over his desk, and began to write. Ilya stood thinking. He would gladly have said something more to this man who had held him so long on the rack. In the quiet, only the scratch of the pen was heard, then the woman's voice, singing, "Dance away, dance away, dolly." "What do you want now?" asked the magistrate, and raised his head. "Nothing," said Ilya gloomily. "I told you, you can go." "I'm going." "All right, then." They looked angrily at one another, and Ilya felt something heavy, terrifying, grow in his breast. He turned sharp round and went out into the street. A cold wind greeted him, and for the first time he noticed that he was sweating profusely. Half-an-hour later he was sitting with Olympiada. She opened the door to him herself, having seen him from the window. She met him with almost a mother's joy. Her face was pale, and she gazed restlessly about with wide-open eyes. "My clever boy!" she cried, when Ilya told her that he had just come from the magistrate. "Tell me, tell me, how did you get on?" "The brute," said Ilya, in wrath. "He set traps for me." "He can't help it," remarked Olympiada, in a tone of common sense. "Let him be; it's his infernal duty." "Why didn't he say straight out--'So-and-so, this is what people think of you.'" "Did you tell him everything straight out?" she asked, smiling. "I!" cried Ilya in astonishment. "Why, yes--as a matter of fact--ah, devil take him!"