As soon as he heard that his guest had “a little business” with him, he at once asked him to sit down on the sofa, sat down himself at the other end, and stared at his guest, expecting an immediate account of the business, with the sort of eager and all too serious attention that from the first becomes burdensome and embarrassing, especially for a stranger, and especially when what is being recounted seems, in one's own opinion, out of all proportion to the unusually weighty attention accorded it. But Raskolnikov explained his business clearly and precisely, in brief and coherent terms, and was left so pleased with himself that he even managed to give Porfiry a thorough looking-over. Porfiry Petrovich, for his part, never once took his eyes off him during the whole time. Razumikhin, settling himself across the table from them, hotly and impatiently followed the account of the business, shifting his glance every second from one to the other and back, which was even a bit too much.

“Fool!” Raskolnikov cursed to himself.

“You ought to make a statement to the police,” Porfiry replied with a most businesslike look, “that, having been informed of such-and-such an event—of this murder, that is—you ask in your turn to inform the investigator in charge of the case that such-and-such things belong to you, and that you wish to redeem them...or perhaps...however, they'll write it out for you.”

“That's just the point, that at the present moment,” Raskolnikov did his best to look as abashed as possible, “I am not exactly solvent . . . and even such a trifle is more than...You see, for now I'd like simply to declare that the things are mine, and that when I have the money...”

“That doesn't matter, sir,” Porfiry Petrovich answered, taking the explanation of finances coldly, “and, as a matter of fact, if you wish you can write directly to me, to the same effect, that having been informed of this and that, and declaring such-and-such things mine, I ask . . .”

“On ordinary paper?” Raskolnikov hastened to interrupt, interested again in the financial aspect of the matter.

“Oh, the most ordinary, sir!” Porfiry Petrovich suddenly looked at him somehow with obvious mockery, narrowing his eyes and as if winking at him. However, perhaps it only seemed so to Raskolnikov, because it lasted no more than an instant. There was something of the sort, at least. Raskolnikov would have sworn to God that he winked at him, devil knew why.

“He knows!” flashed in him like lightning.

“Excuse me for bothering you with such trifles,” he went on, somewhat disconcerted, “my things are worth only five roubles, but they are especially dear to me as mementos of those from whom I received them, and, I confess, as soon as I found out, I was very afraid . . .”

“That's why you got so roused up yesterday when I let on to Zossimov that Porfiry was questioning the pawners!” Razumikhin put in with obvious intention.

Now, this was insufferable. Raskolnikov could not help himself and angrily flashed a glance at him, his black eyes burning with wrath. But he immediately recovered himself.

“You seem to be taunting me, brother?” he turned to him with artfully feigned irritation. “I agree that in your eyes I may care too much about such trash, but you cannot regard me as greedy or egoistic for that, and in my eyes these two worthless little trinkets may not be trash at all. I told you just now that this two-penny silver watch is the only thing left of my father's. You may laugh, but my mother has come to visit me,” he suddenly turned to Porfiry again, “and if she were to find out,” he quickly turned back to Razumikhin, trying especially hard to make his voice tremble, “that this watch is lost, I swear she would be in despair! Women!”

“But it's not that at all! I meant it in a different way! Quite the opposite!” exclaimed the distressed Razumikhin.

“Well done? Natural? Not exaggerated?” Raskolnikov trembled within himself. “Why did I say 'women'?”

“Your mother has come to visit you?” Porfiry Petrovich inquired for some reason.

“Yes.”

“When was that, sir?”

“Yesterday evening.”

Porfiry paused, as if considering something.

“Your things would not be lost in any event,” he went on calmly and coldly, “because I've been sitting here a long time waiting for you.”

And as though nothing were the matter, he solicitously began offering an. ashtray to Razumikhin, who was mercilessly flicking cigarette ashes on the carpet. Raskolnikov gave a start, but Porfiry, still solicitous for Razumikhin's cigarette, seemed not to be looking.

“Wha-a-at? Waiting? So you knew he had pawned things there?” exclaimed Razumikhin.

Porfiry Petrovich addressed Raskolnikov directly.

“Your two things, the ring and the watch, she had wrapped up in one piece of paper, with your name clearly written on it in pencil, together with the day and month when she received them from you . . .”

“How is it you're so observant? . . .” Raskolnikov grinned awkwardly, making a special effort to look him straight in the eye; but he could not help himself and suddenly added: “I just made that observation because there were probably many pawners...so that it would be difficult for you to remember them all... But, on the contrary, you remember them all so distinctly, and...and...”

(“Stupid! Weak! Why did I add that!”)

“Yes, almost all the pawners are known now; in fact, you are the only one who has not been so good as to pay us a visit,” Porfiry replied, with a barely noticeable shade of mockery.

“I was not feeling very well.”

“So I have heard, sir. I've even heard that you were greatly upset by something. You also seem pale now.”

“Not pale at all...on the contrary, I'm quite well!” Raskolnikov snapped rudely and angrily, suddenly changing his tone. Anger was boiling up in him and he could not suppress it. “And it's in anger that I'll make some slip!” flashed in him again. “But why are they tormenting me! . . .”

“Not feeling very well!” Razumikhin picked up. “Listen to that drivel! He was in delirium and almost unconscious until yesterday...Would you believe it, Porfiry, he could hardly stand up, but as soon as we—Zossimov and I—turned our backs yesterday, he got dressed and made off on the sly, and carried on somewhere till almost midnight—and all that, I tell you, in complete delirium, can you imagine it! A remarkable case!”

“Really, in complete delirium? You don't say!” Porfiry shook his head with a sort of womanish gesture.

“Ah, nonsense! Don't believe it! But then, you don't believe it anyway!” escaped from Raskolnikov, who was now much too angry. However, Porfiry Petrovich seemed not to hear these strange words.

“But how could you have gone out if you weren't delirious?” Razumikhin suddenly lost his temper. “Why did you go out? What for?...And why precisely on the sly? Was there any common sense in you then? Now that all the danger is past, I can say it straight out!”

“I got awfully sick of them yesterday,” Raskolnikov suddenly turned to Porfiry with an insolently defiant grin, “so I ran away from them to rent an apartment where they wouldn't find me, and I took a pile of money with me. Mr. Zamyotov here saw the money. What do you say, Mr. Zamyotov, was I intelligent yesterday or delirious? Settle the argument!”

He could really have strangled Zamyotov at that moment, so much did he dislike his silence and the look in his eyes.

“In my opinion you spoke quite intelligently, and even cunningly, sir, only you were rather irritable,” Zamyotov declared dryly.

“And Nikodim Fomich told me today,” Porfiry Petrovich put in, “that he met you yesterday, quite late, in the apartment of an official who had been run over by horses . . .”

“Now, take this official, for instance!” Razumikhin picked up. “Now, weren't you crazy at the official's place? You gave all your money to the widow for the funeral! Now, if you wanted to help—