“What a number of rogues there are about,” Zametoff said.  “I read not long ago, in the Moscow papers, that they had captured a whole gang of forgers in that city.  Quite a colony.”

“That’s old news.  I read it a month ago,” replied Raskolnikoff in a careless manner.  “And you call such as these rogues?” he added, smiling.

“Why not?”

“Rogues indeed!  Why, they are only children and babies.  Fifty banded together for such purposes!  Is it possible?  Three would be quite sufficient, and then they should be sure of one another—­not babble over their cups.  The babies!  Then to hire unreliable people to change the notes at the money changers’, persons whose hands tremble as they receive the rubles.  On such their lives depend!  Far better to strangle yourself!  The man goes in, receives the change, counts some over, the last portion he takes on faith, stuffs all in his pocket, rushes away and the murder is out.  All is lost by one foolish man.  Is it not ridiculous?”

“That his hands should shake?” replied Zametoff.  “No; that is quite likely.  Yours would not, I suppose?  I could not endure it, though.  For a paltry reward of a hundred rubles to go on such a mission!  And where?  Into a banker’s office with forged notes!  I should certainly lose my head.  Would not you?”

Raskolnikoff felt again a strong impulse to make a face at him.  A shiver ran down his back.  “You would not catch me acting so foolishly,” he commenced.  “This is how I should do.  I should count over the first thousand very carefully, perhaps four times, right to the end, carefully examine each note, and then only pass to the second thousand, count these as far as the middle of the bundle, take out a note, hold it to the light, turn it over, then hold it to the light again, and say, ‘I fear this is a bad note,’ and then begin to relate some story about a lost note.  Then there would be a third thousand to count.  Not yet, please, there is a mistake in the second thousand.  No, it is correct.  And so I should proceed until I had received all.  At last I should turn to go, open the door, but, no, pardon me!  I should return, ask some question, receive some explanation, and there it is all done.”

“What funny things you do say!” said Zametoff with a smile.  “You are all very well theoretically, but try it and see.  Look, for example, at the murder of the money lender, a case in point.  There was a 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.”