ound, until all of a sudden he started, as
if some one had whispered in his ear. Raising his eyes he saw that he
stood before _the house_, at its very gates.

Quick as lightning, an idea rushed into his head, and he marched
through the yard and made his way up the well-known staircase to the
fourth story. It was, as usual, very dark, and as he reached each
landing he peered almost with caution. There was the room newly
painted, where Dmitri and Mikola had worked. He reached the fourth
landing and he paused before the murdered woman's room in doubt. The
door was wide open and he could hear voices within; this he had not
anticipated. However, after wavering a little, he went straight in.
The room was being done up, and in it were some workmen. This
astonished him--indeed, it would seem he had expected to find
everything as he had left it, even to the dead bodies lying on the
floor. But to see the place with bare walls and bereft of furniture
was very strange! He walked up to the windows and sat on the sill. One
of the workmen now saw him and cried:

"What do you want here?"

Instead of replying, Raskolnikoff walked to the outer door and,
standing outside, began to pull at the bell. Yes, that was the bell,
with its harsh sound. He pulled again and again three times, and
remained there listening and thinking.

"What is it you want?" again cried the workman as he went out to
Raskolnikoff.

"I wish to hire some rooms. I came to look at these."

"People don't take lodgings in the night. Why don't you apply to the
porter?"

"The floor has been washed. Are you going to paint it?" remarked
Raskolnikoff. "Where is the blood?"

"What blood?"

"The old woman's and her sister's. There was quite a pool."

"Who are you?" cried the workman uneasily.

"I am Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikoff, ex-student. I live at the
house Schilla, in a lane not far from here, No. 14. Ask the porter
there--he knows me," Raskolnikoff replied indifferently, without
turning to his questioner.

"What were you doing in those rooms?"

"Looking at them."

"What for? Come, out you go then, if you won't explain yourself,"
suddenly shouted the porter, a huge fellow in a smock frock, with a
large bunch of keys round his waist; and he caught Raskolnikoff by the
shoulder and pitched him into the street. The latter lurched forward,
but recovered himself, and, giving one look at the spectators, went
quietly away.

"What shall I do now?" thought Rask