“It was your pride made you think I was a fool. Take the money.”
Ivan took the three rolls of notes and put them in his pocket without wrapping them in anything.
“I shall show them at the court tomorrow,” he said.
“Nobody will believe you, as you’ve plenty of money of your own; you may simply have taken it out of your cashbox and brought it to the court.”
Ivan rose from his seat.
“I repeat,” he said, “the only reason I haven’t killed you is that I need you for tomorrow, remember that, don’t forget it!”
“Well, kill me. Kill me now,” Smerdyakov said, all at once looking strangely at Ivan. “You won’t dare do that even!” he added, with a bitter smile. “You won’t dare to do anything, you, who used to be so bold!”
“Till tomorrow,” cried Ivan, and moved to go out.
“Stay a moment. … Show me those notes again.”
Ivan took out the notes and showed them to him. Smerdyakov looked at them for ten seconds.
“Well, you can go,” he said, with a wave of his hand. “Ivan Fyodorovitch!” he called after him again.
“What do you want?” Ivan turned without stopping.
“Goodbye!”
“Till tomorrow!” Ivan cried again, and he walked out of the cottage.