muttered.

"Brandy, sir?" asked the waiter.

"No, tea; and bring me some newspapers--for about the last five days.
I'll give you a drink."

The papers and the tea appeared. Raskolnikoff sat and searched, and,
at last, found what he wanted. "Ah, here it is!" he cried, as he began
to read. The words danced before his eyes, but he read greedily to the
end, and turned to others for later intelligence. His hands trembled
with impatience, and the sheets shook again. Suddenly some one sat
down near him. He looked up, and there was Zametoff--that same
Zametoff, with his rings and chain, his oiled locks and fancy
waistcoat and unclean linen. He seemed pleased, and his tanned face, a
little inflamed by the champagne, wore a smile.

"Ah! you here?" he commenced, in a tone as if he had known
Raskolnikoff for an age. "Why Razoumikhin told me yesterday that you
were lying unconscious. How strange! Then I was at your place----"

Raskolnikoff laid down the paper and turned to Zametoff. On his lips
was a slight provoking smile. "I know you were," he replied, "I heard
so. You searched for my boot. To what agreeable places you resort. Who
gives you champagne to drink?"

"We were drinking together. What do you mean?"

"Nothing, dear boy, nothing," said Raskolnikoff, with a smile and
slapping Zametoff on the shoulders. "I am not in earnest, but simply
in fun, as your workman said, when he wrestled with Dmitri, you know,
in that murder case."

"Do you know about that?"

"Yes, and perhaps more than you do."

"You are very peculiar. It is a pity you came out. You are ill."

"Do I seem strange?"

"Yes; what are you reading?"

"The paper."

"There are a number of fires."

"I am not reading about them." He looked curiously at Zametoff, and a
malicious smile distorted his lips. "No, fires are not in my line," he
added, winking at Zametoff. "Now, I should like to know, sweet youth,
what it signifies to you what I read?"

"Nothing at all. I only asked. Perhaps I----"

"Listen. You are a cultivated man--a literary man, are you not?"

"I was in the sixth class at college," Zametoff answered, with a
certain amount of dignity.

"The sixth! Oh, my fine fellow! With rings and a chain--a rich man!
You are a dear boy," and Raskolnikoff gave a short, nervous laugh,
right in the face of Zametoff. The latter was very much taken aback,
and, if not offended, seemed a good deal surprised.

"How strange you are!" said Zametoff seriously