“What is it?” asked Ivan, trembling.
“Kindly look at it,” Smerdyakov answered, still in the same low tone.
Ivan stepped up to the table, took up the roll of paper and began unfolding it, but suddenly he drew back his fingers, as though from contact with a loathsome reptile.
“Your hands keep twitching,” observed Smerdyakov, and he deliberately unfolded the bundle himself. Under the wrapper were three packets of hundred-rouble notes.
“They are all here, all the three thousand roubles; you need not count them. Take them,” Smerdyakov suggested to Ivan, nodding at the notes. Ivan sank back in his chair. He was as white as a handkerchief.
“You frightened me … with your stocking,” he said, with a strange grin.
“Can you really not have known till now?” Smerdyakov asked once more.
“No, I did not know. I kept thinking of Dmitri. Brother, brother! Ach!” He suddenly clutched his head in both hands.
“Listen. Did you kill him alone? With my brother’s help or without?”
“It was only with you, with your help, I killed him, and Dmitri Fyodorovitch is quite innocent.”
“All right, all right. Talk about me later. Why do I keep on trembling? I can’t speak properly.”
“You were bold enough then. You said ‘everything was lawful,’ and how frightened you are now,” Smerdyakov muttered in surprise. “Won’t you have some lemonade? I’ll ask for some at once. It’s very refreshing. Only I must hide this first.”