“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.  “You have the fever still on you; you are raving!”

“Am I, my fine fellow—­am I strange?  Yes, but I am very interesting to you, am I not?”

“Interesting?”

“Yes.  You ask me what I am reading, what I am looking for; then I am looking through a number of papers.  Suspicious, isn’t it?  Well, I will explain to you, or rather confess—­no, not that exactly.  I will give testimony, and you shall take it down—­that’s it.  So then, I swear that I was reading, and came here on purpose”—­Raskolnikoff blinked his eyes and paused—­“to read an account of the murder of the old woman.”  He finished almost in a whisper, eagerly watching Zametoff’s face.  The latter returned his glances without flinching.  And it appeared strange to Zametoff that a full minute seemed to pass as they kept fixedly staring at each other in this manner.

“Oh, so that’s what you have been reading?” Zametoff at last cried impatiently.  “What is there in that?” “She is the same woman,” continued Raskolnikoff, still in a whisper, and taking no notice of Zametoff’s remark, “the very same woman you were talking about when I swooned in your office.  You recollect—­you surely recollect?”

“Recollect what?” said Zametoff, almost alarmed.

The serious expression on Raskolnikoff’s face altered in an instant, and he again commenced his nervous laugh, and laughed as if he were quite unable to contain himself.  There had recurred to his mind, with fearful clearness, the moment when he stood at the door with the hatchet in his hand.  There he was, holding the bolt, and they were tugging and thumping away at the door.  Oh, how he itched to shriek at them, open the door, thrust out his tongue at them, and frighten them away, and then laugh, “Ah, ah, ah, ah!”

“You are insane, or else—­” said Zametoff, and then paused as if a new thought had suddenly struck him.

“Or what, or what?  Now what?  Tell me!”

“Nonsense!” said Zametoff to himself, “it can’t be.”  Both became silent.  After this unexpected and fitful outburst of laughter, Raskolnikoff had become lost in thought and looked very sad.  He leaned on the table with his elbows, buried his head in his hands, and seemed to have quite forgotten Zametoff.  The silence continued a long time.  “You do not drink your tea; it is getting cold,” said the latter, at last.

“What?  Tea?  Yes!” Raskolnikoff snatched at his glass, put a piece of bread in his mouth, and then, after looking at Zametoff, seemingly recollected and roused himself.  His face at once resumed its previous smile, and he continued to sip his tea.