“A man trades here at this corner, with his wife, eh?”

“Everyone trades here,” replied the lad, scanning his questioner from head to foot.

“What is he called?”

“What he was christened.”

“But you belong to Zaraisk, don’t you?  To what Government?”

The boy stared at Raskolnikoff.  “We have no governor, your highness, but districts.  I stay at home, and know nothing about it, but my brother does; so pardon me, your most mighty highness.”

“Is that an eating house there?”

“That’s a dram shop; they have a billiard table.”

“There are newspapers here?” asked he, as he entered a room—­one of a suite—­rather empty.  Two or three persons sat with tea before them, while in a farther room a group of men were seated, drinking champagne.  Raskolnikoff thought he recognized Zametoff among them, but he could not be sure.  “Never mind, if it is!” he 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?”