No one
knew about the signals except my father, Smerdyakov, and me: that was all.
Heaven knew, too, but it won't tell you. But it's an interesting fact.
There's no knowing what you might build on it. Ha ha! Take comfort,
gentlemen, I'll reveal it. You've some foolish idea in your hearts. You
don't know the man you have to deal with! You have to do with a prisoner
who gives evidence against himself, to his own damage! Yes, for I'm a man
of honor and you--are not."

The prosecutor swallowed this without a murmur. He was trembling with
impatience to hear the new fact. Minutely and diffusely Mitya told them
everything about the signals invented by Fyodor Pavlovitch for Smerdyakov.
He told them exactly what every tap on the window meant, tapped the
signals on the table, and when Nikolay Parfenovitch said that he supposed
he, Mitya, had tapped the signal "Grushenka has come," when he tapped to
his father, he answered precisely that he had tapped that signal, that
"Grushenka had come."

"So now you can build up your tower," Mitya broke off, and again turned
away from them contemptuously.

"So no one knew of the signals but your dead father, you, and the valet
Smerdyakov? And no one else?" Nikolay Parfenovitch inquired once more.

"Yes. The valet Smerdyakov, and Heaven. Write down about Heaven. That may
be of use. Besides, you will need God yourselves."

And they had already, of course, begun writing it down. But while they
wrote, the prosecutor said suddenly, as though pitching on a new idea:

"But if Smerdyakov also knew of these signals and you absolutely deny all
responsibility for the death of your father, was it not he, perhaps, who
knocked the signal agreed upon, induced your father to open to him, and
then ... committed the crime?"

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?"

"H