he was not in his hut or in the streets. They ran all over the village, looking for him. They went to all the pothouses and huts, but could not find him. He had disappeared, and two days later came of his own accord to the police office, pale, with his clothes torn, trembling all over. He was bound and put in the lock-up.
'Prisoner,' said the president, addressing Harlamov, 'cannot you explain to the court where you were during the three days following the murder?'
'I was wandering about the fields. . . . Neither eating nor drinking . . . .'
'Why did you hide yourself, if it was not you that committed the murder?
'I was frightened. . . . I was afraid I might be judged guilty. . . .'
'Aha! . . . Good, sit down!'
The last to be examined was the district doctor who had made a post-mortem on the old woman. He told the court all that he remembered of his report at the post-mortem and all that he had succeeded in thinking of on his way to the court that morning. The president screwed up his eyes at his new glossy black suit, at his foppish cravat, at his moving lips; he listened and in his mind the languid thought seemed to spring up of itself:
'Everyone wears a short jacket nowadays, why has he had his made long? Why long and not short?'
The circumspect creak of boots was audible behind the president's back. It was the assistant prosecutor going up to the table to take some papers.
'Mihail Vladimirovitch,' said the assistant prosecutor, bending down to the president's ear, 'amazingly slovenly the way that Koreisky conducted the investigation. The prisoner's brother was not examined, the village elder was not examined, there's no making anything out of his description of the hut. . . .'
'It can't be helped, it can't be helped,' said the president, sinking back in his chair. 'He's a wreck . . . dropping to bits!'
'By the way,' whispered the assistant prosecutor, 'look at the audience, in the front row, the third from the right . . . a face like an actor's . . . that's the local Croesus. He has a fortune of something like fifty thousand.'
'Really? You wouldn't guess it from his appearance. . . . Well, dear boy, shouldn't we have a break?'
'We will finish the case for the prosecution, and then. . . .'
'As you think best. . . . Well?' the president raised his eyes to the doctor. 'So you consider that death was instantaneous?'
'Yes, in consequence of the extent of the injury to the brain substance. . . .'
When the doctor had finished, the president gazed into the space between the prosecutor and the counsel for the defence and suggested:
'Have you any questions to ask?'
The assistant prosecutor shook his head negatively, without lifting his eyes from 'Cain'; the counsel for the defence unexpectedly stirred and, clearing his throat, asked:
'Tell me, doctor, can you from the dimensions of the wound form any theory as to . . . as to the mental condition of the criminal? That is, I mean, does the extent of the injury justify the supposition that the accused was suffering from temporary aberration?'
The president raised his drowsy indifferent eyes to the counsel for the defence. The assistant prosecutor tore himself from 'Cain,' and looked at the president. They merely looked, but there was no smile, no surprise, no perplexity-their faces expressed nothing.
'Perhaps,' the doctor hesitated, 'if one considers the force with which . . . er—er—er . . . the criminal strikes the blow. . . . However, excuse me, I don't quite understand your question. . . .'
The counsel for the defence did not get an answer to his question, and indeed he did not feel the necessity of one. It was clear even to himself that that question had strayed into his mind and found utterance simply through the effect of the stillness, the boredom, the whirring ventilator wheels.
When they had got rid of the doctor the court rose to examine the 'material evidences.' The first thing examined was the full-skirted coat, upon the sleeve of which there was a dark brownish stain of blood. Harlamov on being questioned as to the origin of the stain stated:
'Three days before my old woman's death Penkov bled his horse. I was there; I was helping to be sure, and . . . and got smeared with it. . . .'
'But Penkov has just given evidence that he does not remember that you were present at the bleeding. . . .'
'I can't tell about that.'
'Sit down.'
They proceeded to examine the axe with which the old woman had been murdered.
'That's not my axe,' the prisoner declared.
'Whose is it, then?'
'I can't tell . . . I hadn't an axe. . . .'
'A peasant can't get on for a day without an axe. And your neighbour Ivan Timofeyitch, with whom you mended a sledge, has given evidence that it is your axe. . . .'
'I can't say about that, but I swear before God (Harlamov held out his hand before him and spread out the fingers), before the living God. And I don't remember how long it is since I did have an axe of my own. I did have one like that only a bit smaller, but my son Prohor lost it. Two years before he went into the army, he drove off to fetch wood, got drinking with the fellows, and lost it. . . .'
'Good, sit down.'
This systematic distrust and disinclination to hear him probably irritated and offended Harlamov. He blinked and red patches came out on his cheekbones.
'I swear in the sight of God,' he went on, craning his neck forward. 'If you don't believe me, be pleased to ask my son Prohor. Proshka, what did you do with the axe?' he suddenly asked in a rough voice, turning abruptly to the soldier escorting him. 'Where is it?'
It was a painful moment! Everyone seemed to wince and as it were shrink together. The same fearful, incredible thought flashed like lightning through every head in the court, the thought of possibly fatal coincidence, and not one person in the court dared to look at the soldier's face. Everyone refused to trust his thought and believed that he had heard wrong.
'Prisoner, conversation with the guards is forbidden . . .' the president made haste to say.
No one saw the escort's face, and horror passed over the hall unseen as in a mask. The usher of the court got up quietly from his place and tiptoeing with his hand held out to balance himself went out of the court. Half a minute later there came the muffled sounds and footsteps that accompany the change of guard.
All raised their heads and, trying to look as though nothing had happened, went on with their work. . . .
BOOTS
A PIANO-TUNER called Murkin, a close-shaven man with a yellow face, with a nose stained with snuff, and cotton-wool in his ears, came out of his hotel-room into the passage, and in a cracked voice cried: 'Semyon! Waiter!'
And looking at his frightened face one might have supposed that the ceiling had fallen in on him or that he had just seen a ghost in his room.
'Upon my word, Semyon!' he cried, seeing the attendant running towards him. 'What is the meaning of it? I am a rheumatic, delicate man and you make me go barefoot! Why is it you don't give me my boots all this time? Where are they?'
Semyon went into Murkin's room, looked at the place where he was in the habit of putting the boots he had cleaned, and scratched his head: the boots were not there.
'Where can they be, the damned things?' Semyon brought out. 'I fancy I cleaned them in the evening and put them here. . . . H'm! . . . Yesterday, I must own, I had a drop. . . . I must have put them in another room, I suppose. That must be it, Afanasy Yegoritch, they are in another room! There are lots of boots, and how the devil is one to know them apart when one is drunk and does not know what one is doing? . . . I must have taken them in to the lady that's next door . . . the actress. . . .'
'And now, if you please, I am to go in to a lady and disturb her all through you! Here, if you please, through this foolishness I am to wake up a respectable woman.'
Sighing and coughing, Murkin went to the door of the next room and cautiously tapped.
'Who's there?' he heard a woman's voice a minute later.
