“That is exactly what they do,” replied Zametoff, “they murder, risk their lives, and then rush to the public house and are caught.  Their lavishness betrays them.  You see they are not all so crafty as you are.  You would not run there, I suppose?”

Raskolnikoff frowned and looked steadily at Zametoff.  “You seem anxious to know how I should act,” he said with some displeasure.

“I should very much like to know,” replied Zametoff in a serious tone.  He seemed, indeed, very anxious.

“Very much?”

“Very much.”

“Good.  This would be my plan,” Raskolnikoff said, as he again bent near to the face of his listener, and speaking in such a tragic whisper as almost to make the latter shudder.  “I should take the money and all I could find, and make off, going, however, in no particular direction, but on and on until I came to some obscure and inclosed place, where no one was about—­a market garden, or any such-like spot.  I should then look about me for a stone, perhaps a pound and a half in weight, lying, it may be, in a corner against a partition, say a stone used for building purposes; this I should lift up and under it there would be a hole.  In that hole I should deposit all the things I had got, roll back the stone, stamp it down with my feet, and be off.  For a year I should let them lie—­for two years, three years.  Now then, search for them!  Where are they?”

“You are indeed mad,” said Zametoff, also in a low tone, but turning away from Raskolnikoff.  The latter’s eyes glistened, he became paler than ever, while his upper lip trembled violently.  He placed his face closer, if possible, to that of Zametoff, his lips moving as if he wished to speak, but no words escaped them—­several moments elapsed—­Raskolnikoff knew what he was doing, but felt utterly unable to control himself, that strange impulse was upon him as when he stood at the bolted door, to come forth and let all be known.

“What if I killed the old woman and Elizabeth?” he asked suddenly, and then—­came to himself.

Zametoff turned quite pale; then his face changed to a smile.  “Can it be so?” he muttered to himself.

Raskolnikoff eyed him savagely.  “Speak out.  What do you think?  Yes?  Is it so?”

“Of course not.  I believe it now less than ever,” replied Zametoff hastily.

“Caught at last! caught, my fine fellow!  What people believe less than ever, they must have believed once, eh?”

“Not at all.  You frightened me into the supposition,” said Zametoff, visibly confused.

“So you do not think this?  Then why those questions in the office?  Why did the lieutenant question me after my swoon?  Waiter,” he cried, seizing his cap, “here, how much?”

“Thirty kopecks, sir,” replied the man.

“There you are, and twenty for yourself.  Look, what a lot of money!” turning to Zametoff and thrusting forth his shaking hand filled with the twenty-five rubles, red and blue notes.  “Whence comes all this?  Where did I obtain these new clothes from?  You know I had none.  You have asked the landlady, I suppose?  Well, no matter!—­Enough!  Adieu, most affectionately.”