with a single clap
of thunder, like a gun fired for a warning of his escape from the prison
of lies.

He must have heard at some time or other and now remembered
unconsciously that there was to be a gathering of revolutionists at the
house of Julius Laspara that evening. At any rate, he made straight for
the Laspara house, and found himself without surprise ringing at its
street door, which, of course, was closed. By that time the thunderstorm
had attacked in earnest. The steep incline of the street ran with water,
the thick fall of rain enveloped him like a luminous veil in the play
of lightning. He was perfectly calm, and, between the crashes, listened
attentively to the delicate tinkling of the doorbell somewhere within
the house.

There was some difficulty before he was admitted. His person was not
known to that one of the guests who had volunteered to go downstairs and
see what was the matter. Razumov argued with him patiently. There could
be no harm in admitting a caller. He had something to communicate to the
company upstairs.

"Something of importance?"

"That'll be for the hearers to judge."

"Urgent?"

"Without a moment's delay."

Meantime, one of the Laspara daughters descended the stairs, small lamp
in hand, in a grimy and crumpled gown, which seemed to hang on her by a
miracle, and looking more than ever like an old doll with a dusty brown
wig, dragged from under a sofa. She recognized Razumov at once.

"How do you do? Of course you may come in."

Following her light, Razumov climbed two flights of stairs from the
lower darkness. Leaving the lamp on a bracket on the landing, she opened
a door, and went in, accompanied by the sceptical guest. Razumov entered
last. He closed the door behind him, and stepping on one side, put his
back against the wall.

The three little rooms _en suite_, with low, smoky ceilings and lit by
paraffin lamps, were crammed with people. Loud talking was going on
in all three, and tea-glasses, full, half-full, and empty, stood
everywhere, even on the floor. The other Laspara girl sat, dishevelled
and languid, behind an enormous samovar. In the inner doorway Razumov
had a glimpse of the protuberance of a large stomach, which he
recognized. Only a few feet from him Julius Laspara was getting down
hurriedly from his high stool.

The appearance of the midnight visitor caused no small sensation.
Laspara is very summary in his version of that night's happenings.
After some