“But you told us yourself that the envelope was under your deceased father’s pillow. You especially stated that it was under the pillow, so you must have known it.”
“We’ve got it written down,” confirmed Nikolay Parfenovitch.
“Nonsense! It’s absurd! I’d no idea it was under the pillow. And perhaps it wasn’t under the pillow at all. … It was just a chance guess that it was under the pillow. What does Smerdyakov say? Have you asked him where it was? What does Smerdyakov say? that’s the chief point. … And I went out of my way to tell lies against myself. … I told you without thinking that it was under the pillow, and now you—Oh, you know how one says the wrong thing, without meaning it. No one knew but Smerdyakov, only Smerdyakov, and no one else. … He didn’t even tell me where it was! But it’s his doing, his doing; there’s no doubt about it, he murdered him, that’s as clear as daylight now,” Mitya exclaimed more and more frantically, repeating himself incoherently, and growing more and more exasperated and excited. “You must understand that, and arrest him at once. … He must have killed him while I was running away and while Grigory was unconscious, that’s clear now. … He gave the signal and father opened to him … for no one but he knew the signal, and without the signal father would never have opened the door. …”
“But you’re again forgetting the circumstance,” the prosecutor observed, still speaking with the same restraint, though with a note of triumph, “that there was no need to give the signal if the door already stood open when you were there, while you were in the garden. …”
“The door, the door,” muttered Mitya, and he stared speechless at the prosecutor. He sank back helpless in his chair. All were silent.
“Yes, the door! … It’s a nightmare! God is against me!” he exclaimed, staring before him in complete stupefaction.