some　crack；　and　then　might　suddenly　turn　up　as　unexpected；
  conclusive　evidence　against　him。
  He　stood　as　though　lost　in　thought；　and　a　strange；　humiliated；
  half　senseless　smile　strayed　on　his　lips。　He　took　his　cap　at　last
  and　went　quietly　out　of　the　room。　His　ideas　were　all　tangled。　He
  went　dreamily　through　the　gateway。
  〃Here　he　is　himself；〃　shouted　a　loud　voice。
  He　raised　his　head。
  The　porter　was　standing　at　the　door　of　his　little　room　and　was
  pointing　him　out　to　a　short　man　who　looked　like　an　artisan；　wearing
  a　long　coat　and　a　waistcoat；　and　looking　at　a　distance　remarkably　like
  a　woman。　He　stooped；　and　his　head　in　a　greasy　cap　hung　forward。　From
  his　wrinkled　flabby　face　he　looked　over　fifty；　his　little　eyes　were
  lost　in　fat　and　they　looked　out　grimly；　sternly　and　discontentedly。
  〃What　is　it？〃　Raskolnikov　asked；　going　up　to　the　porter。
  The　man　stole　a　look　at　him　from　under　his　brows　and　he　looked　at
  him　attentively；　deliberately；　then　he　turned　slowly　and　went　out　of
  the　gate　into　the　street　without　saying　a　word。
  〃What　is　it？〃　cried　Raskolnikov。
  〃Why；　he　there　was　asking　whether　a　student　lived　here；　mentioned
  your　name　and　whom　you　lodged　with。　I　saw　you　coming　and　pointed　you
  out　and　he　went　away。　It's　funny。〃
  The　porter　too　seemed　rather　puzzled；　but　not　much　so；　and　after
  wondering　for　a　moment　he　turned　and　went　back　to　his　room。
  Raskolnikov　ran　after　the　stranger；　and　at　once　caught　sight　of
  him　walking　along　the　other　side　of　the　street　with　the　same　even；
  deliberate　step　with　his　eyes　fixed　on　the　ground；　as　though　in
  meditation。　He　soon　overtook　him；　but　for　some　time　walked　behind　him。
  At　last；　moving　on　to　a　level　with　him；　he　looked　at　his　face。　The　man
  noticed　him　at　once；　looked　at　him　quickly；　but　dropped　his　eyes
  again；　and　so　they　walked　for　a　minute　side　by　side　without　uttering　a
  word。
  〃You　were　inquiring　for　me。。。　of　the　porter？〃　Raskolnikov　said　at
  last；　but　in　a　curiously　quiet　voice。
  The　man　made　no　answer；　he　didn't　even　look　at　him。　Again　they
  were　both　silent。
  〃Why　do　you。。。　come　and　ask　for　me。。。　and　say　nothing。。。。　What's　the
  meaning　of　it？〃
  Raskolnikov's　voice　broke　and　he　seemed　unable　to　articulate　the
  words　clearly。
  The　man　raised　his　eyes　this　time　and　turned　a　gloomy　sinister
  look　at　Raskolnikov。
  〃Murderer！〃　he　said　suddenly　in　a　quiet　but　clear　and　distinct
  voice。
  Raskolnikov　went　on　walking　beside　him。　His　legs　felt　suddenly　weak；
  a　cold　shiver　ran　down　his　spine；　and　his　heart　seemed　to　stand
  still　for　a　moment；　then　suddenly　began　throbbing　as　though　it　were
  set　free。　So　they　walked　for　about　a　hundred　paces；　side　by　side　in
  silence。
  The　man　did　not　look　at　him。
  〃What　do　you　mean。。。　what　is。。。。　Who　is　a　murderer？〃　muttered
  Raskolnikov　hardly　audibly。
  〃You　are　a　murderer；〃　the　man　answered　still　more　articulately　and
  emphatically；　with　a　smile　of　triumphant　hatred；　and　again　he　looked
  straight　into　Raskolnikov's　pale　face　and　stricken　eyes。
  They　had　just　reached　the　crossroads。　The　man　turned　to　the　left
  without　looking　behind　him。　Raskolnikov　remained　standing；　gazing
  after　him。　He　saw　him　turn　round　fifty　paces　away　and　look　back　at　him
  still　standing　there。　Raskolnikov　could　not　see　clearly；　but　he
  fancied　that　he　was　again　smiling　the　same　smile　of　cold　hatred　and
  triumph。
  With　slow　faltering　steps；　with　shaking　knees；　Raskolnikov　made
  his　way　back　to　his　little　garret；　feeling　chilled　all　over。　He　took
  off　his　cap　and　put　it　on　the　table；　and　for　ten　minutes　he　stood
  without　moving。　Then　he　sank　exhausted　on　the　sofa　and　with　a　weak
  moan　of　pain　he　stretched　himself　on　it。　So　he　lay　for　half　an　hour。
  He　thought　of　nothing。　Some　thoughts　or　fragments　of　thoughts；
  some　images　without　order　or　coherence　floated　before　his　mind…
  faces　of　people　he　had　seen　in　his　childhood　or　met　somewhere　once；
  whom　he　would　never　have　recalled；　the　belfry　of　the　church　at　V。；　the
  billiard　table　in　a　restaurant　and　some　officers　playing　billiards；
  the　smell　of　cigars　in　some　underground　tobacco　shop；　a　tavern　room；　a
  back　staircase　quite　dark；　all　sloppy　with　dirty　water　and　strewn　with
  egg　shells；　and　the　Sunday　bells　floating　in　from　somewhere。。。。　The
  images　followed　one　another；　whirling　like　a　hurricane。　Some　of　them
  he　liked　and　tried　to　clutch　at；　but　they　faded　and　all　the　while
  there　was　an　oppression　within　him；　but　it　was　not　overwhelming；
  sometimes　it　was　even　pleasant。。。。　The　slight　shivering　still
  persisted；　but　that　too　was　an　almost　pleasant　sensation。
  He　heard　the　hurried　footsteps　of　Razumihin；　he　closed　his　eyes
  and　pretended　to　be　asleep。　Razumihin　opened　the　door　and　stood　for
  some　time　in　the　doorway　as　though　hesitating；　then　he　stepped
  softly　into　the　room　and　went　cautiously　to　the　sofa。　Raskolnikov
  heard　Nastasya's　whisper：
  〃Don't　disturb　him！　Let　him　sleep。　He　can　have　his　dinner　later。〃
  〃Quite　so；〃　answered　Razumihin。　Both　withdrew　carefully　and　closed
  the　door。　Another　half…hour　passed。　Raskolnikov　opened　his　eyes；
  turned　on　his　back　again；　clasping　his　hands　behind　his　head。
  〃Who　is　he？　Who　is　that　man　who　sprang　out　of　the　earth？　Where　was
  he；　what　did　he　see？　He　has　seen　it　all；　that's　clear。　Where　was　he
  then？　And　from　where　did　he　see？　Why　has　he　only　now　sprung　out　of　the
  earth？　And　how　could　he　see？　Is　it　possible？　Hm。。。〃　continued
  Raskolnikov；　turning　cold　and　shivering；　〃and　the　jewel　case　Nikolay
  found　behind　the　door…　was　that　possible？　A　clue？　You　miss　an
  infinitesimal　line　and　you　can　build　it　into　a　pyramid　of　evidence！
  A　fly　flew　by　and　saw　it！　Is　it　possible？〃　He　felt　with　sudden
  loathing　how　weak；　how　physically　weak　he　had　become。　〃I　ought　to　have
  known　it；〃　he　thought　with　a　bitter　smile。　〃And　how　dared　I；　knowing
  myself；　knowing　how　I　should　be；　take　up　an　axe　and　shed　blood！　I
  ought　to　have　known　beforehand。。。。　Ah；　but　I　did　know！〃　he　whispered
  in　despair。　At　times　he　came　to　a　standstill　at　some　thought。
  〃No；　those　men　are　not　made　so。　The　real　Master　to　whom　all　is
  permitted　storms　Toulon；　makes　a　massacre　in　Paris；　forgets　an　army　in
  Egypt；　wastes　half　a　million　men　in　the　Moscow　expedition　and　gets　off
  with　a　jest　at　Vilna。　And　altars　are　set　up　to　him　after　his　death；
  and　so　all　is　permitted。　No；　such　people　it　seems　are　not　of　flesh　but
  of　bronze！〃
  One　sudden　irrelevant　idea　almost　made　him　laugh。　Napoleon；　the
  pyramids；　Waterloo；　and　a　wretched　skinny　old　woman；　a　pawnbroker　with
  a　red　trunk　under　her　bed…　it's　a　nice　hash　for　Porfiry　Petrovitch
  to　digest！　How　can　they　digest　it！　It's　too　inartistic。　〃A　Napoleon
  creep　under　an　old　woman's　bed！　Ugh；　how　loathsome！〃
  At　moments　he　felt　he　was　raving。　He　sank　into　a　state　of　feverish
  excitement。　〃The　old　woman　is　of　no　consequence；〃　he　thought；　hotly
  and　incoherently。　〃The　old　woman　was　a　mistake　perhaps；　but　she　is　not
  what　matters！　The　old　woman　was　only　an　illness。。。。　I　was　in　a　hurry
  to　overstep。。。。　I　didn't　kill　a　human　being；　but　a　principle！　I　killed
  the　principle；　but　I　didn't　overstep；　I　stopped　on　this　side。。。。　I　was
  only　capable　of　killing。　And　it　seems　I　wasn't　even　capable　of　that。。。
  Principle？　Why　was　that　fool　Razum