desperate
villain who in broad daylight stopped at nothing, and yet his hand
shook, did it not?--and he could not finish, and left all the spoil
behind him. The deed evidently robbed him of his presence of mind."

This language nettled Raskolnikoff. "You think so? Then lay your hand
upon him," said he, maliciously delighted to tease him.

"Never fear but we shall!"

"You? Go to, you know nothing about it. All you think of inquiring is
whether a man is flinging money about; he is--then, _ergo_ he is
guilty."

"That is exactly what they do," replied Zametoff, "they murder, risk
their lives, and then rush to the public house and are caught. Their
lavishness betrays them. You see they are not all so crafty as you
are. You would not run there, I suppose?"

Raskolnikoff frowned and looked steadily at Zametoff. "You seem
anxious to know how I should act," he said with some displeasure.

"I should very much like to know," replied Zametoff in a serious tone.
He seemed, indeed, very anxious.

"Very much?"

"Very much."

"Good. This would be my plan," Raskolnikoff said, as he again bent
near to the face of his listener, and speaking in such a tragic
whisper as almost to make the latter shudder. "I should take the money
and all I could find, and make off, going, however, in no particular
direction, but on and on until I came to some obscure and inclosed
place, where no one was about--a market garden, or any such-like spot.
I should then look about me for a stone, perhaps a pound and a half in
weight, lying, it may be, in a corner against a partition, say a stone
used for building purposes; this I should lift up and under it there
would be a hole. In that hole I should deposit all the things I had
got, roll back the stone, stamp it down with my feet, and be off. For
a year I should let them lie--for two years, three years. Now then,
search for them! Where are they?"

"You are indeed mad," said Zametoff, also in a low tone, but turning
away from Raskolnikoff. The latter's eyes glistened, he became paler
than ever, while his upper lip trembled violently. He placed his face
closer, if possible, to that of Zametoff, his lips moving as if he
wished to speak, but no words escaped them--several moments
elapsed--Raskolnikoff knew what he was doing, but felt utterly unable
to control himself, that strange impulse was upon him as when he stood
at the bolted door, to come forth and let all be known.

"What if I killed the old w