Mitya turned upon him a look of profound irony and intense hatred. His silent stare lasted so long that it made the prosecutor blink.
“You’ve caught the fox again,” commented Mitya at last; “you’ve got the beast by the tail. Ha ha! I see through you, Mr. Prosecutor. You thought, of course, that I should jump at that, catch at your prompting, and shout with all my might, ‘Aie! it’s Smerdyakov; he’s the murderer.’ Confess that’s what you thought. Confess, and I’ll go on.”
But the prosecutor did not confess. He held his tongue and waited.
“You’re mistaken. I’m not going to shout ‘It’s Smerdyakov,’ ” said Mitya.
“And you don’t even suspect him?”
“Why, do you suspect him?”
“He is suspected, too.”
Mitya fixed his eyes on the floor.
“Joking apart,” he brought out gloomily. “Listen. From the very beginning, almost from the moment when I ran out to you from behind the curtain, I’ve had the thought of Smerdyakov in my mind. I’ve been sitting here, shouting that I’m innocent and thinking all the time ‘Smerdyakov!’ I can’t get Smerdyakov out of my head. In fact, I, too, thought of Smerdyakov just now; but only for a second. Almost at once I thought, ‘No, it’s not Smerdyakov.’ It’s not his doing, gentlemen.”
“In that case is there anybody else you suspect?” Nikolay Parfenovitch inquired cautiously.
“I don’t know anyone it could be, whether it’s the hand of Heaven or Satan, but … not Smerdyakov,” Mitya jerked out with decision.