“Judge,” said Nekhludoff, approaching him at the moment when he was putting on a light overcoat and taking a silver-handled cane which the porter handed him, “may I speak to you about the case that has just been tried?  I am a juror.”

“Why, of course, Prince Nekhludoff!  I am delighted to see you.  We have met before,” said the justiciary, pressing his hand, and recalling with pleasure that he was the jolliest fellow and best dancer of all the young men on the evening he had met him.  “What can I do for you?”

“There was a mistake in the jury’s finding against Maslova.  She is not guilty of poisoning, and yet she is sent to penal servitude,” he said, with a gloomy countenance.

“The court gave its decision in accordance with your own finding,” answered the justiciary, moving toward the door, “although the answers did not seem to suit the case.”

He remembered that he intended to explain to the jury that an answer of guilty without a denial of intent to kill involved an intent to kill, but, as he was hastening to terminate the proceedings, he failed to do so.

“But could not the mistake be rectified?”

“Cause for appeal can always be found.  You must see a lawyer,” said the justiciary, putting on his hat a little on one side and continuing to move toward the door.

“But this is terrible.”

“You see, one of two things confronted Maslova,” the justiciary said, evidently desiring to be as pleasant and polite with Nekhludoff as possible.  Then, arranging his side-whiskers over his coat collar, and taking Nekhludoff’s arm, he led him toward the door.  “You are also going?” he continued.

“Yes,” said Nekhludoff, hastily donning his overcoat and following him.

They came out into the bright, cheerful sunlight, where the rattling of wheels on the pavement made it necessary to raise their voices.

“The situation, you see, is a very curious one,” continued the justiciary.  “Maslova was confronted by one of two things:  either a short term in jail, in which case her lengthy confinement would have been taken into consideration, or penal servitude; no other sentence was possible.  Had you added the words, ‘without intent to kill,’ she would have been discharged.”

“It is unpardonable neglect on my part,” said Nekhludoff.

“That is the whole trouble,” the justiciary said, smiling and looking at his watch.

There was only three-quarters of an hour left to the latest hour fixed in Clara’s appointment.

“You can apply to a lawyer, if you wish.  It is necessary to find grounds for appeal.  But that can always be found.  To the Dvorianskaia,” he said to the cab-driver.  “Thirty kopecks—­I never pay more.”

“All right, Your Excellency.”

“Good-day.  If I can be of any service to you, please let me know.  You will easily remember my address:  Dvornikoff’s house, on the Dvorinskaia.”