“Here is a notice for you from the office,” said the latter.

“What office?”

“The police office.”

“What for?”

“I don’t know.  You are summoned there, go.”  The porter looked anxiously at the lodger, and turned to leave.  Raskolnikoff made no observation, and held the paper unopened in his hand.

“There, stay where you are,” said Nastasia, seeing him fall back on the couch.  “If you are ill, do not go.  What is that in your hand?”

He looked down; in his right hand were clutched the pieces of frayed cloth, his boot, and the lining of his pocket.  He had evidently fallen asleep with them as they were; indeed he recollected how, thinking deeply about them, he had dozed away.

“The idea of taking a lot of rags to bed and hugging them to you like a treasure!” laughed the servant in her sickly manner.

In a second he hid all under his coat and looked at her attentively.  Although little was capable of passing in his mind, he felt she would not talk thus to a man under arrest for a crime.  But then, the police?

“Is there anything you want?  You stay here, I will bring it.”

“No, I will go.  I am going at once,” murmured he, rising to his feet.

“Very well.”

She went out after the porter.  As soon as she had disappeared, he rushed to the light to look at his boot.  Yes, there were spots, but not very plain, all covered with mud.  But who would distinguish them?  Nastasia could know nothing, thank heavens!  Then with trembling hand he tore open the notice, and began to read.  At last he understood; it was simply the usual notice to report himself at the office of the district that day at half-past nine o’clock.

“But why to-day?” cried he.  “Lord, let it be over soon.”  He was about to fall down on his knees to pray, when a fit of laughter seized him.  “I must trust to myself, not to prayers.”  He quickly dressed himself.  “Shall I put the boot on?” he thought, “better throw it away, and hide all traces of it.”  Nevertheless he put it on, only, however, to throw it off again with an expression of horror.  As, however, he recollected he had no other, a smile came to his face, and he drew it on once more.  Again his face changed into deep despair, his limbs shook more and more.  “This is not from exertion,” thought he, “it is fear.”  His head spun round and round and his temples throbbed visibly.

On the stairs he recollected that all the things were in the hole in the wall, and then where was his certificate of birth?  He stopped to think.  But such despair, and, if it may be so called, cynicism, took hold of him, that he simply shook his head and went out.  The sooner over, the better.  Once again in the open air, he encountered the same insufferable heat, the dust, and the people in drink rolling about the streets.  The sun caught him full in the eyes and almost blinded him, while his head spun round