“Is it not very likely that some coming Napoleon did for Alena Ivanovna last week?” suddenly blustered Zametoff from his corner.

Without saying a word, Raskolnikoff fixed on Porphyrius a firm and penetrating glance.  Raskolnikoff was beginning to look sullen.  He seemed to have been suspecting something for some time past.  He looked round him with an irritable air.  For a moment there was an ominous silence.  Raskolnikoff was getting ready to go.

“What, are you off already?” asked Porphyrius, kindly offering the young man his hand with extreme affability.  “I am delighted to have made your acquaintance.  And as for your application, don’t be uneasy about it.  Write in the way I suggested.  Or, perhaps, you had better do this.  Come and see me before long—­to-morrow, if you like.  I shall be here without fail at eleven o’clock.  We can make everything right—­we’ll have a chat—­and as you were one of the last that went there, you might be able to give some further particulars?” he added, with his friendly smile.

“Do you wish to examine me formally?” Raskolnikoff inquired, in an uncomfortable tone.

“Why should I?  Such a thing is out of the question.  You have misunderstood me.  I ought to tell you that I manage to make the most of every opportunity.  I have already had a chat with every single person that has been in the habit of pledging things with the old woman—­several have given me very useful information—­and as you happen to be the last one—­By the by,” he exclaimed, with sudden pleasure, “how lucky I am thinking about it, I was really going to forget it!” (Saying which he turned to Razoumikhin.) “You were almost stunning my ears, the other day, talking about Mikolka.  Well, I am certain, quite certain, as to his innocence,” he went on, once more addressing himself to Raskolnikoff.  “But what was to be done?  It has been necessary to disturb Dmitri.  Now, what I wanted to ask was:  On going upstairs—­was it not between seven and eight you entered the house?”

“Yes,” replied Raskolnikoff, and he immediately regretted an answer he ought to have avoided.

“Well, in going upstairs, between seven and eight, did you not see on the second floor, in one of the rooms, when the door was wide open—­you remember, I dare say?—­did you not see two painters, or, at all events, one of the two?  They were whitewashing the room, I believe; you must have seen them!  The matter is of the utmost importance to them!”

“Painters, you say?  I saw none,” replied Raskolnikoff slowly, trying to sound his memory:  for a moment he violently strained it to discover, as quickly as he could, the trap concealed by the magistrate’s question.  “No, I did not see a single one; I did not even see any room standing open,” he went on, delighted at having discovered the trap, “but on the fourth floor I remember noticing that the man lodging on the same landing as Alena Ivanovna was in the act of moving.  I remember that very well, as I met a few soldiers carrying a sofa, and I was obliged to back against the wall; but, as for painters, I don’t remember seeing a single one—­I don’t even remember a room that had its door open.  No, I saw nothing.”