rtains, of course."

Nikolay Parfenovitch bent his head in assent. His small face wore an
expression of peculiar solemnity.

Chapter VI. The Prosecutor Catches Mitya

Something utterly unexpected and amazing to Mitya followed. He could
never, even a minute before, have conceived that any one could behave like
that to him, Mitya Karamazov. What was worst of all, there was something
humiliating in it, and on their side something "supercilious and
scornful." It was nothing to take off his coat, but he was asked to
undress further, or rather not asked but "commanded," he quite understood
that. From pride and contempt he submitted without a word. Several
peasants accompanied the lawyers and remained on the same side of the
curtain. "To be ready if force is required," thought Mitya, "and perhaps
for some other reason, too."

"Well, must I take off my shirt, too?" he asked sharply, but Nikolay
Parfenovitch did not answer. He was busily engaged with the prosecutor in
examining the coat, the trousers, the waistcoat and the cap; and it was
evident that they were both much interested in the scrutiny. "They make no
bones about it," thought Mitya, "they don't keep up the most elementary
politeness."

"I ask you for the second time--need I take off my shirt or not?" he said,
still more sharply and irritably.

"Don't trouble yourself. We will tell you what to do," Nikolay
Parfenovitch said, and his voice was positively peremptory, or so it
seemed to Mitya.

Meantime a consultation was going on in undertones between the lawyers.
There turned out to be on the coat, especially on the left side at the
back, a huge patch of blood, dry, and still stiff. There were bloodstains
on the trousers, too. Nikolay Parfenovitch, moreover, in the presence of
the peasant witnesses, passed his fingers along the collar, the cuffs, and
all the seams of the coat and trousers, obviously looking for
something--money, of course. He didn't even hide from Mitya his suspicion
that he was capable of sewing money up in his clothes.

"He treats me not as an officer but as a thief," Mitya muttered to
himself. They communicated their ideas to one another with amazing
frankness. The secretary, for instance, who was also behind the curtain,
fussing about and listening, called Nikolay Parfenovitch's attention to
the cap, which they were also fingering.

"You remember Gridyenko, the copying-clerk," observed the secretary. "Last
summer he received the wag