The
door
was
as
before
opened
a tiny crack,
and
again
two
sharp
and
suspicious
eyes
stared
at
him
out
of
the
darkness.
Then
Raskolnikov lost
his
head
and
nearly
made
a
great
mistake.
Fearing
the
old
woman
would
be
frightened
by
their
being alone,
and
not
hoping
that
the
sight
of
him
would
disarm
her
suspicions,
he
took
hold
of
the
door
and
drew
it
towards
him
to
prevent
the
old
woman
from
attempting
to
shut
it
again.
Seeing
this
she
did
not
pull
the
door
back,
but
she
did
not
let
go
the
handle
so
that
he
almost
dragged
her
out
with
it
on
to
the
stairs.
Seeing
that
she
was
standing
in
the
doorway
not
allowing
him
to
pass,
he
advanced straight
upon
her.
She
stepped
back
in
alarm, tried
to
say
something,
but
seemed
unable
to
speak
and
stared
with
open
eyes
at
him. "Good evening, Alyona Ivanovna,"
he
began, trying
to
speak
easily,
but
his
voice
would
not
obey
him,
it
broke
and
shook. "I
have
come... I
have
brought something...
but
we'd
better
come
in...
to
the
light...."
And
leaving
her,
he
passed
straight
into
the
room
uninvited.
The
old
woman
ran
after
him;
her
tongue
was
unloosed. "Good heavens!
What
it
is?
Who
is
it?
What
do
you
want?" "Why, Alyona Ivanovna,
you
know
me... Raskolnikov... here, I brought
you
the
pledge
I
promised
the
other
day..."
And
he
held
out
the
pledge.
The
old
woman
glanced
for
a
moment
at
the
pledge,
but
at
once
stared
in
the
eyes
of
her
uninvited visitor.
She
looked
intently, maliciously
and
mistrustfully. A
minute
passed;
he
even
fancied
something
like
a sneer
in
her
eyes,
as
though
she
had
already
guessed everything.
He
felt
that
he
was
losing
his
head,
that
he
was
almost
frightened,
so
frightened
that
if
she
were
to
look
like
that
and
not
say
a
word
for
another
half
minute,
he
thought
he
would
have
run
away
from
her. "Why
do
you
look
at
me
as
though
you
did
not
know
me?"
he
said suddenly,
also
with
malice. "Take
it
if
you
like,
if
not
I'll
go
elsewhere, I
am
in
a hurry."
He
had
not
even
thought
of
saying
this,
but
it
was
suddenly said
of
itself.
The
old
woman
recovered
herself,
and
her
visitor's
resolute
tone evidently
restored
her
confidence. "But why, my
good
sir,
all
of
a minute....
What
is
it?"
she
asked,
looking
at
the
pledge. "The
silver
cigarette
case; I
spoke
of
it
last
time,
you
know."
She
held
out
her
hand. "But
how
pale
you
are,
to
be
sure...
and
your
hands
are
trembling
too?
Have
you
been bathing,
or
what?" "Fever,"
he
answered
abruptly. "You can't
help
getting
pale...
if
you've
nothing
to
eat,"
he
added,
with
difficulty
articulating
the
words.
His
strength
was
failing
him
again.
But
his
answer
sounded
like
the
truth;
the
old
woman
took
the
pledge. "What
is
it?"
she
asked
once
more, scanning Raskolnikov intently,
and
weighing
the
pledge
in
her
hand. "A thing...
cigarette
case.... Silver....
Look
at
it." "It
does
not
seem
somehow
like
silver....
How
he
has wrapped
it
up!" Trying
to
untie
the
string
and
turning
to
the
window,
to
the
light
(all
her
windows
were
shut,
in
spite
of
the
stifling
heat),
she
left
him
altogether
for
some
seconds
and
stood
with
her
back
to
him.
He
unbuttoned
his
coat
and
freed
the
axe
from
the
noose,
but
did
not
yet
take
it
out
altogether, simply holding
it
in
his
right
hand
under
the
coat.
His
hands
were
fearfully weak,
he
felt
them
every
moment
growing
more
numb
and
more
wooden.
He
was
afraid
he
would
let
the
axe
slip
and
fall.... A
sudden
giddiness came
over
him. "But
what
has
he
tied
it
up
like
this
for?"
the
old
woman
cried
with
vexation
and
moved
towards
him.
He
had
not
a
minute
more
to
lose.
He
pulled
the
axe
quite
out, swung
it
with
both
arms,
scarcely
conscious
of
himself,
and
almost
without
effort,
almost
mechanically, brought
the
blunt
side
down
on
her
head.
He
seemed
not
to
use
his
own
strength
in
this.
But
as
soon
as
he
had
once
brought
the
axe
down,
his
strength
returned
to
him.
The
old
woman
was
as
always
bareheaded.
Her
thin,
light
hair, streaked
with
grey,
thickly
smeared
with
grease,
was
plaited
in
a rat's tail
and
fastened
by
a
broken
horn
comb
which
stood
out
on
the
nape
of
her
neck.
As
she
was
so
short,
the
blow
fell
on
the
very
top
of
her
skull.
She
cried out,
but
very
faintly,
and
suddenly sank
all
of
a
heap
on
the
floor,
raising
her
hands
to
her
head.
In
one
hand
she
still
held
"the pledge."
Then
he
dealt
her
another
and
another
blow
with
the
blunt
side
and
on
the
same
spot.
The
blood
gushed
as
from
an
overturned glass,
the
body
fell
back.
He
stepped
back,
let
it
fall,
and
at
once
bent
over
her
face;
she
was
dead.
Her
eyes
seemed
to
be
starting
out
of
their
sockets,
the
brow
and
the
whole
face
were
drawn
and
contorted
convulsively.
He
laid
the
axe
on
the
ground
near
the
dead
body
and
felt
at
once
in
her
pocket
(trying
to
avoid
the
streaming
body)—the
same
right-hand
pocket
from
which
she
had taken
the
key
on
his
last
visit.
He
was
in
full
possession
of
his
faculties,
free
from
confusion
or
giddiness,
but
his
hands
were
still
trembling.
He
remembered
afterwards
that
he
had been particularly
collected
and
careful, trying
all
the
time
not
to
get
smeared
with
blood....
He
pulled
out
the
keys
at
once,
they
were
all,
as
before,
in
one
bunch
on
a
steel
ring.
He
ran
at
once
into
the
bedroom
with
them.
It
was
a
very
small
room
with
a
whole
shrine
of
holy
images. Against
the
other
wall
stood a
big
bed,
very
clean
and
covered
with
a
silk
patchwork
wadded
quilt. Against a
third
wall
was
a
chest
of
drawers.
Strange
to
say,
so
soon
as
he
began
to
fit
the
keys
into
the
chest,
so
soon
as
he
heard
their
jingling, a
convulsive
shudder
passed
over
him.
He
suddenly felt
tempted
again
to
give
it
all
up
and
go
away.
But
that
was
only
for
an
instant;
it
was
too
late
to
go
back.
He
positively
smiled
at
himself,
when
suddenly
another
terrifying
idea
occurred
to
his
mind.
He
suddenly fancied
that
the
old
woman
might
be
still
alive
and
might
recover
her
senses.
Leaving
the
keys
in
the
chest,
he
ran
back
to
the
body, snatched
up
the
axe
and
lifted
it
once
more
over
the
old
woman,
but
did
not
bring
it
down.
There
was
no
doubt
that
she
was
dead.
Bending
down
and
examining
her
again
more
closely,
he
saw
clearly
that
the
skull
was
broken
and
even
battered
in
on
one
side.
He
was
about
to
feel
it
with
his
finger,
but
drew
back
his
hand
and
indeed
it
was
evident
without
that. Meanwhile
there
was
a perfect pool
of
blood.
All
at
once
he
noticed a string
on
her
neck;
he
tugged
at
it,
but
the
string
was
strong
and
did
not
snap
and
besides,
it
was
soaked
with
blood.
He
tried
to
pull
it
out
from
the
front
of
the
dress,
but
something
held
it
and
prevented
its
coming.
In
his
impatience
he
raised
the
axe
again
to
cut
the
string
from
above
on
the
body,
but
did
not
dare,
and
with
difficulty,
smearing
his
hand
and
the
axe
in
the
blood,
after
two
minutes' hurried effort,
he
cut
the
string
and
took
it
off
without
touching
the
body
with
the
axe;
he
was
not
mistaken—it
was
a purse.
On
the
string
were
two
crosses,
one
of
Cyprus
wood
and
one
of
copper,
and
an
image
in
silver
filigree,
and
with
them
a small greasy
chamois
leather
purse
with
a
steel
rim
and
ring.
The
purse
was
stuffed
very
full; Raskolnikov thrust
it
in
his
pocket
without
looking
at
it, flung
the
crosses
on
the
old
woman's
body
and
rushed
back
into
the
bedroom,
this
time
taking
the
axe
with
him.
He
was
in
terrible
haste,
he
snatched
the
keys,
and
began trying
them
again.
But
he
was
unsuccessful.
They
would
not
fit
in
the
locks.
It
was
not
so
much
that
his
hands
were
shaking,
but
that
he
kept
making
mistakes;
though
he
saw
for
instance
that
a
key
was
not
the
right
one
and
would
not
fit,
still
he
tried
to
put
it
in. Suddenly
he
remembered
and
realised
that
the
big
key
with
the
deep
notches,
which
was
hanging
there
with
the
small
keys
could
not
possibly
belong
to
the
chest
of
drawers (on
his
last
visit
this
had struck him),
but
to
some
strong
box,
and
that
everything
perhaps
was
hidden
in
that
box.
He
left
the
chest
of
drawers,
and
at
once
felt
under
the
bedstead, knowing
that
old
women usually
keep
boxes
under
their
beds.
And
so
it
was;
there
was
a good-sized
box
under
the
bed,
at
least
a
yard
in
length,
with
an
arched
lid
covered
with
red
leather
and
studded
with
steel
nails.
The
notched
key
fitted
at
once
and
unlocked
it.
At
the
top,
under
a
white
sheet,
was
a coat
of
red
brocade lined
with
hareskin;
under
it
was
a
silk
dress,
then
a
shawl
and
it
seemed
as
though
there
was
nothing
below
but
clothes.
The
first
thing
he
did
was
to
wipe
his
blood-stained
hands
on
the
red
brocade. "It's red,
and
on
red
blood
will
be
less
noticeable,"
the
thought
passed
through
his
mind;
then
he
suddenly came
to
himself. "Good God,
am
I going
out
of
my senses?"
he
thought
with
terror.
But
no
sooner
did
he
touch
the
clothes
than
a
gold
watch
slipped
from
under
the
fur
coat.
He
made
haste
to
turn
them
all
over.
There
turned
out
to
be
various
articles
made
of
gold
among
the
clothes—probably
all
pledges, unredeemed
or
waiting
to
be
redeemed—bracelets, chains, ear-rings,
pins
and
such
things.
Some
were
in
cases,
others
simply wrapped
in
newspaper,
carefully
and
exactly folded,
and
tied
round
with
tape.
Without
any
delay,
he
began filling
up
the
pockets
of
his
trousers
and
overcoat
without
examining
or
undoing
the
parcels
and
cases;
but
he
had
not
time
to
take
many....
He
suddenly
heard
steps
in
the
room
where
the
old
woman
lay.
He
stopped
short
and
was
still
as
death.
But
all
was
quiet,
so
it
must
have
been
his
fancy.
All
at
once
he
heard
distinctly a faint cry,
as
though
someone had
uttered
a
low
broken
moan.
Then
again
dead
silence
for
a
minute
or
two.
He
sat squatting
on
his
heels
by
the
box
and
waited
holding
his
breath. Suddenly
he
jumped up,
seized
the
axe
and
ran
out
of
the
bedroom.
In
the
middle
of
the
room
stood Lizaveta
with
a
big
bundle
in
her
arms.
She
was
gazing
in
stupefaction
at
her
murdered
sister,
white
as
a
sheet
and
seeming
not
to
have
the
strength
to
cry
out.
Seeing
him
run
out
of
the
bedroom,
she
began
faintly
quivering
all
over,
like
a leaf, a shudder
ran
down
her
face;
she
lifted
her
hand,
opened
her
mouth,
but
still
did
not
scream.
She
began
slowly
backing
away
from
him
into
the
corner, staring intently,
persistently
at
him,
but
still
uttered
no
sound,
as
though
she
could
not
get
breath
to
scream.
He
rushed
at
her
with
the
axe;
her
mouth
twitched piteously,
as
one
sees
babies' mouths,
when
they
begin
to
be
frightened, stare
intently
at
what
frightens
them
and
are
on
the
point
of
screaming.
And
this
hapless Lizaveta
was
so
simple
and
had been
so
thoroughly
crushed
and
scared
that
she
did
not
even
raise
a
hand
to
guard
her
face,
though
that
was
the
most
necessary
and
natural
action
at
the
moment,
for
the
axe
was
raised
over
her
face.
She
only
put
up
her
empty left hand,
but
not
to
her
face,
slowly
holding
it
out
before
her
as
though
motioning
him
away.
The
axe
fell
with
the
sharp
edge
just
on
the
skull
and
split
at
one
blow
all
the
top
of
the
head.
She
fell
heavily
at
once. Raskolnikov completely lost
his
head, snatching
up
her
bundle,
dropped
it
again
and
ran
into
the
entry.
Fear
gained
more
and
more
mastery
over
him, especially
after
this
second,
quite
unexpected murder.
He
longed
to
run
away
from
the
place
as
fast
as
possible.
And
if
at
that
moment
he
had been
capable
of
seeing
and
reasoning
more
correctly,
if
he
had been
able
to
realise
all
the
difficulties
of
his
position,
the
hopelessness,
the
hideousness
and
the
absurdity
of
it,
if
he
could
have
understood
how
many
obstacles
and, perhaps,
crimes
he
had
still
to
overcome
or
to
commit,
to
get
out
of
that
place
and
to
make
his
way
home,
it
is
very
possible
that
he
would
have
flung
up
everything,
and
would
have
gone
to
give
himself
up,
and
not
from
fear,
but
from
simple
horror
and
loathing
of
what
he
had done.
The
feeling
of
loathing especially
surged
up
within
him
and
grew
stronger
every
minute.
He
would
not
now
have
gone
to
the
box
or
even
into
the
room
for
anything
in
the
world.
But
a
sort
of
blankness,
even
dreaminess, had begun
by
degrees
to
take
possession
of
him;
at
moments
he
forgot himself,
or
rather, forgot
what
was
of
importance,
and
caught
at
trifles. Glancing, however,
into
the
kitchen
and
seeing
a
bucket
half
full
of
water
on
a bench,
he
bethought
him
of
washing
his
hands
and
the
axe.
His
hands
were
sticky
with
blood.
He
dropped
the
axe
with
the
blade
in
the
water, snatched a
piece
of
soap
that
lay
in
a
broken
saucer
on
the
window,
and
began
washing
his
hands
in
the
bucket.
When
they
were
clean,
he
took
out
the
axe,
washed
the
blade
and
spent a
long
time,
about
three
minutes,
washing
the
wood
where
there
were
spots
of
blood
rubbing
them
with
soap.
Then
he
wiped
it
all
with
some
linen
that
was
hanging
to
dry
on
a line
in
the
kitchen
and
then
he
was
a
long
while
attentively
examining
the
axe
at
the
window.
There
was
no
trace
left
on
it,
only
the
wood
was
still
damp.
He
carefully
hung
the
axe
in
the
noose
under
his
coat.
Then
as
far
as
was
possible,
in
the
dim
light
in
the
kitchen,
he
looked
over
his
overcoat,
his
trousers
and
his
boots.
At
the
first
glance
there
seemed
to
be
nothing
but
stains
on
the
boots.
He
wetted
the
rag
and
rubbed
the
boots.
But
he
knew
he
was
not
looking
thoroughly,
that
there
might
be
something
quite
noticeable
that
he
was
overlooking.
He
stood
in
the
middle
of
the
room, lost
in
thought. Dark agonising
ideas
rose
in
his
mind—the
idea
that
he
was
mad
and
that
at
that
moment
he
was
incapable
of
reasoning,
of
protecting
himself,
that
he
ought
perhaps
to
be
doing
something
utterly
different
from
what
he
was
now
doing. "Good God!"
he
muttered
"I
must
fly, fly,"
and
he
rushed
into
the
entry.
But
here
a shock
of
terror
awaited
him
such
as
he
had
never
known before.
He
stood
and
gazed
and
could
not
believe
his
eyes:
the
door,
the
outer
door
from
the
stairs,
at
which
he
had
not
long
before
waited
and
rung,
was
standing
unfastened
and
at
least
six
inches open.
No
lock,
no
bolt,
all
the
time,
all
that
time!
The
old
woman
had
not
shut
it
after
him
perhaps
as
a precaution. But,
good
God! Why,
he
had
seen
Lizaveta afterwards!
And
how
could
he,
how
could
he
have
failed
to
reflect
that
she
must
have
come
in
somehow!
She
could
not
have
come
through
the
wall!
He
dashed
to
the
door
and
fastened
the
latch. "But no,
the
wrong
thing
again! I
must
get
away,
get
away...."
He
unfastened
the
latch,
opened
the
door
and
began
listening
on
the
staircase.
He
listened
a
long
time. Somewhere
far
away,
it
might
be
in
the
gateway,
two
voices
were
loudly
and
shrilly shouting,
quarrelling
and
scolding. "What
are
they
about?"
He
waited
patiently.
At
last
all
was
still,
as
though
suddenly
cut
off;
they
had separated.
He
was
meaning
to
go
out,
but
suddenly,
on
the
floor
below, a
door
was
noisily
opened
and
someone began going downstairs
humming
a tune. "How
is
it
they
all
make
such
a noise?" flashed
through
his
mind.
Once
more
he
closed
the
door
and
waited.
At
last
all
was
still,
not
a soul stirring.
He
was
just
taking
a
step
towards
the
stairs
when
he
heard
fresh
footsteps.
At
last
when
the
unknown
was
mounting
to
the
fourth
floor,
he
suddenly started,
and
succeeded
in
slipping
neatly
and
quickly
back
into
the
flat
and
closing
the
door
behind
him.
Then
he
took
the
hook
and
softly, noiselessly, fixed
it
in
the
catch.
Instinct
helped
him.
When
he
had
done
this,
he
crouched
holding
his
breath,
by
the
door.
The
unknown
visitor
was
by
now
also
at
the
door.
They
were
now
standing
opposite
one
another,
as
he
had
just
before
been standing
with
the
old
woman,
when
the
door
divided
them
and
he
was
listening.
The
visitor
panted
several
times. "He
must
be
a big,
fat
man,"
thought
Raskolnikov, squeezing
the
axe
in
his
hand.
It
seemed
like
a
dream
indeed.
The
visitor
took
hold
of
the
bell
and
rang
it
loudly. "What's up?
Are
they
asleep
or
murdered? D-damn them!"
he
bawled
in
a
thick
voice, "Hey, Alyona Ivanovna,
old
witch! Lizaveta Ivanovna, hey, my beauty!
open
the
door! Oh,
damn
them!
Are
they
asleep
or
what?"
And
again, enraged,
he
tugged
with
all
his
might
a
dozen
times
at
the
bell.
He
must
certainly
be
a
man
of
authority
and
an
intimate acquaintance.
At
this
moment
light
hurried
steps
were
heard
not
far
off,
on
the
stairs. Someone
else
was
approaching. Raskolnikov had
not
heard
them
at
first. "You don't
say
there's
no
one
at
home,"
the
new-comer cried
in
a cheerful, ringing voice,
addressing
the
first
visitor,
who
still
went
on
pulling
the
bell. "Good evening, Koch." "From
his
voice
he
must
be
quite
young,"
thought
Raskolnikov. "Who
the
devil
can
tell? I've
almost
broken
the
lock,"
answered
Koch. "But
how
do
you
come
to
know
me?" "Why!
The
day
before
yesterday
I beat
you
three
times running
at
billiards
at
Gambrinus'." "Oh!" "So
they
are
not
at
home? That's queer. It's awfully
stupid
though.
Where
could
the
old
woman
have
gone? I've
come
on
business." "Yes;
and
I
have
business
with
her, too." "Well,
what
can
we
do?
Go
back, I suppose, Aie—aie!
And
I
was
hoping
to
get
some
money!" cried
the
young
man. "We
must
give
it
up,
of
course,
but
what
did
she
fix
this
time for?
The
old
witch
fixed
the
time
for
me
to
come
herself. It's
out
of
my way.
And
where
the
devil
she
can
have
got to, I can't
make
out.
She
sits
here
from
year's
end
to
year's end,
the
old
hag;
her
legs
are
bad
and
yet
here
all
of
a
sudden
she
is
out
for
a walk!" "Hadn't
we
better
ask
the
porter?" "What?" "Where she's gone
and
when
she'll
be
back." "Hm....
Damn
it
all!...
We
might
ask....
But
you
know
she
never
does
go
anywhere."
And
he
once
more
tugged
at
the
door-handle. "Damn
it
all. There's
nothing
to
be
done,
we
must
go!" "Stay!" cried
the
young
man
suddenly. "Do
you
see
how
the
door
shakes
if
you
pull
it?" "Well?" "That
shows
it's
not
locked,
but
fastened
with
the
hook!
Do
you
hear
how
the
hook clanks?" "Well?" "Why, don't
you
see?
That
proves
that
one
of
them
is
at
home.
If
they
were
all
out,
they
would
have
locked
the
door
from
the
outside
with
the
key
and
not
with
the
hook
from
inside. There,
do
you
hear
how
the
hook
is
clanking?
To
fasten
the
hook
on
the
inside
they
must
be
at
home, don't
you
see.
So
there
they
are
sitting
inside
and
don't
open
the
door!" "Well!
And
so
they
must
be!" cried Koch, astonished. "What
are
they
about
in
there?"
And
he
began furiously shaking
the
door. "Stay!" cried
the
young
man
again. "Don't
pull
at
it!
There
must
be
something
wrong.... Here, you've been ringing
and
pulling
at
the
door
and
still
they
don't open!
So
either
they've
both
fainted or..." "What?" "I
tell
you
what. Let's
go
fetch
the
porter,
let
him
wake
them
up." "All right."
Both
were
going down. "Stay.
You
stop
here
while
I
run
down
for
the
porter." "What for?" "Well, you'd better." "All right." "I'm studying
the
law
you
see! It's evident, e-vi-dent there's
something
wrong
here!"
the
young
man
cried hotly,
and
he
ran
downstairs. Koch remained.
Once
more
he
softly touched
the
bell
which
gave
one
tinkle,
then
gently,
as
though
reflecting
and
looking
about
him, began touching
the
door-handle
pulling
it
and
letting
it
go
to
make
sure
once
more
that
it
was
only
fastened
by
the
hook.
Then
puffing
and
panting
he
bent
down
and
began
looking
at
the
keyhole:
but
the
key
was
in
the
lock
on
the
inside
and
so
nothing
could
be
seen. Raskolnikov stood
keeping
tight
hold
of
the
axe.
He
was
in
a
sort
of
delirium.
He
was
even
making
ready
to
fight
when
they
should
come
in.
While
they
were
knocking
and
talking together,
the
idea
several
times
occurred
to
him
to
end
it
all
at
once
and
shout
to
them
through
the
door.
Now
and
then
he
was
tempted
to
swear
at
them,
to
jeer
at
them,
while
they
could
not
open
the
door! "Only
make
haste!"
was
the
thought
that
flashed
through
his
mind. "But
what
the
devil
is
he
about?..." Time
was
passing,
one
minute,
and
another—no
one
came. Koch began
to
be
restless. "What
the
devil?"
he
cried suddenly
and
in
impatience
deserting
his
sentry duty, he, too, went down, hurrying
and
thumping
with
his
heavy
boots
on
the
stairs.
The
steps
died
away. "Good heavens!
What
am
I
to
do?" Raskolnikov
unfastened
the
hook,
opened
the
door—there
was
no
sound. Abruptly,
without
any
thought
at
all,
he
went out, closing
the
door
as
thoroughly
as
he
could,
and
went downstairs.
He
had gone
down
three
flights
when
he
suddenly
heard
a
loud
voice below—where
could
he
go!
There
was
nowhere
to
hide.
He
was
just
going
back
to
the
flat. "Hey there!
Catch
the
brute!" Somebody dashed
out
of
a
flat
below, shouting,
and
rather
fell
than
ran
down
the
stairs,
bawling
at
the
top
of
his
voice. "Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Mitka!
Blast
him!"
The
shout ended
in
a shriek;
the
last
sounds
came
from
the
yard;
all
was
still.
But
at
the
same
instant
several
men talking
loud
and
fast
began noisily
mounting
the
stairs.
There
were
three
or
four
of
them.
He
distinguished
the
ringing voice
of
the
young
man. "Hey!"
Filled
with
despair
he
went straight
to
meet them, feeling "come
what
must!"
If
they
stopped him—all
was
lost;
if
they
let
him
pass—all
was
lost too;
they
would
remember
him.
They
were
approaching;
they
were
only
a
flight
from
him—and suddenly deliverance! A
few
steps
from
him
on
the
right,
there
was
an
empty
flat
with
the
door
wide
open,
the
flat
on
the
second
floor
where
the
painters
had been
at
work,
and
which,
as
though
for
his
benefit,
they
had
just
left.
It
was
they,
no
doubt,
who
had
just
run
down, shouting.
The
floor
had
only
just
been painted,
in
the
middle
of
the
room
stood a
pail
and
a
broken
pot
with
paint
and
brushes.
In
one
instant
he
had whisked
in
at
the
open
door
and
hidden
behind
the
wall
and
only
in
the
nick
of
time;
they
had
already
reached
the
landing.
Then
they
turned
and
went
on
up
to
the
fourth
floor, talking loudly.
He
waited, went
out
on
tiptoe
and
ran
down
the
stairs.
No
one
was
on
the
stairs,
nor
in
the
gateway.
He
passed
quickly
through
the
gateway
and
turned
to
the
left
in
the
street.
He
knew,
he
knew
perfectly
well
that
at
that
moment
they
were
at
the
flat,
that
they
were
greatly
astonished
at
finding
it
unlocked,
as
the
door
had
just
been fastened,
that
by
now
they
were
looking
at
the
bodies,
that
before
another
minute
had
passed
they
would
guess
and
completely
realise
that
the
murderer
had
just
been there,
and
had
succeeded
in
hiding
somewhere, slipping
by
them
and
escaping.
They
would
guess
most
likely
that
he
had been
in
the
empty flat,
while
they
were
going upstairs.
And
meanwhile
he
dared
not
quicken
his
pace much,
though
the
next
turning
was
still
nearly a
hundred
yards
away. "Should
he
slip
through
some
gateway
and
wait
somewhere
in
an
unknown
street? No, hopeless!
Should
he
fling
away
the
axe?
Should
he
take
a cab? Hopeless, hopeless!"
At
last
he
reached
the
turning.
He
turned
down
it
more
dead
than
alive.
Here
he
was
half
way
to
safety,
and
he
understood it;
it
was
less
risky
because
there
was
a
great
crowd
of
people,
and
he
was
lost
in
it
like
a
grain
of
sand.
But
all
he
had
suffered
had
so
weakened
him
that
he
could
scarcely
move.
Perspiration
ran
down
him
in
drops,
his
neck
was
all
wet. "My word,
he
has been going it!" someone shouted
at
him
when
he
came
out
on
the
canal
bank.
He
was
only
dimly
conscious
of
himself
now,
and
the
farther
he
went
the
worse
it
was.
He
remembered
however,
that
on
coming
out
on
to
the
canal
bank,
he
was
alarmed
at
finding
few
people
there
and
so
being
more
conspicuous,
and
he
had
thought
of
turning
back.
Though
he
was
almost
falling
from
fatigue,
he
went a
long
way
round
so
as
to
get
home
from
quite
a
different
direction.
He
was
not
fully
conscious
when
he
passed
through
the
gateway
of
his
house!
He
was
already
on
the
staircase
before
he
recollected
the
axe.
And
yet
he
had a
very
grave
problem
before
him,
to
put
it
back
and
to
escape
observation
as
far
as
possible
in
doing so.
He
was
of
course
incapable
of
reflecting
that
it
might
perhaps
be
far
better
not
to
restore
the
axe
at
all,
but
to
drop
it
later
on
in
somebody's yard.
But
it
all
happened
fortunately,
the
door
of
the
porter's
room
was
closed
but
not
locked,
so
that
it
seemed
most
likely
that
the
porter
was
at
home.
But
he
had
so
completely lost
all
power
of
reflection
that
he
walked straight
to
the
door
and
opened
it.
If
the
porter had
asked
him, "What
do
you
want?"
he
would
perhaps
have
simply
handed
him
the
axe.
But
again
the
porter
was
not
at
home,
and
he
succeeded
in
putting
the
axe
back
under
the
bench,
and
even
covering
it
with
the
chunk
of
wood
as
before.
He
met
no
one,
not
a soul, afterwards
on
the
way
to
his
room;
the
landlady's
door
was
shut.
When
he
was
in
his
room,
he
flung
himself
on
the
sofa
just
as
he
was—he
did
not
sleep,
but
sank
into
blank
forgetfulness.
If
anyone
had
come
into
his
room
then,
he
would
have
jumped
up
at
once
and
screamed. Scraps
and
shreds
of
thoughts
were
simply
swarming
in
his
brain,
but
he
could
not
catch
at
one,
he
could
not
rest
on
one,
in
spite
of
all
his
efforts....