it was a mere look, expressing neither amusement nor surprise, expressing, in fact, nothing at all.
The doctor hesitated. "If you consider the force with which the accused delivered the blow. . . . Otherwise . . . But excuse me, I do not quite understand your point."
The defending lawyer got no answer to his question, and, indeed, needed none. He knew that it had arisen in his mind, and flowed from his lips, merely under the spell of the tedium, the stillness, the humming ventilators. Releasing the doctor, the court examined the articles produced as evidence. First they looked at a caftan, on the sleeve of which was a dark brown spot of blood. The origin of this spot was explained by Kharlamoff as follows —
"Three days before my wife's death Penkoff bled his horse. I was there, and, of course, helped him . . . and I got smeared with blood. . . ."
"But Penkoff has just sworn that he does not remember you being present when the horse was bled."
"I do not know. . . ."
"Sit down."
The court examined the hatchet found beside the dead woman.
"That is not my hatchet," said the accused.
"Whose, then?"
"I do not know . . . I had no hatchet."
