Porphyrius’s fright seemed so natural that Raskolnikoff remained silent whilst examining him with curiosity.  He refused, however, the proffered water.

“Rodion Romanovitch!  My dear friend!  If you go on in this way, you will go mad, I am positive!  Drink, pray, if only a few drops!” He almost forced the glass of water into his hand.  Raskolnikoff raised it mechanically to his lips, when suddenly he thought better of it, and replaced it on the table with disgust.  “Yes, yes, you have had a slight fit.  One or two more, my friend, and you will have another attack of your malady,” observed the magistrate in the kindest tone of voice, appearing greatly agitated.  “Is it possible that people can take so little care of themselves?  It was the same with Dmitri Prokofitch, who called here yesterday.  I admit mine to be a caustic temperament, that mine is a horrid disposition, but that such a meaning could possibly be attributed to harmless remarks.  He called here yesterday, when you had gone, and in the course of dinner he talked, talked.  You had sent him, had you not?  But do sit down, batuchka! do sit down, for heaven’s sake!”

“I did not indeed!—­although I knew that he had called, and his object in doing so!” replied Raskolnikoff dryly.

“Did you really know why?”

“I did.  And what did you gather from it?”

“I gathered from it, batuchka! Rodion Romanovitch, the knowledge of a good many of your doings—­in fact, I know all!  I know that you went, towards nightfall, to hire the lodgings. I know that you pulled the bell, and that a question of yours in connection with bloodstains, as well as your manner, frightened both journeymen and dvorniks.  I know what was your mood at the time.  Excitement of such a kind will drive you out of your mind, be assured.  A praiseworthy indignation is at work within you, complaining now as to destiny, now on the subject of police agents.  You keep going here and there to induce people as far as possible to formulate their accusations.  This stupid kind of tittle-tattle is hateful to you, and you are anxious to put a stop to it as soon as possible.  Am I right?  Have I laid finger on the sentiments which actuate you?  But you are not satisfied by turning your own brain, you want to do, or rather do, the same thing to my good Razoumikhin.  Really, it is a pity to upset so good a fellow!  His kindness exposes him more than anyone else to suffer contagion from your own malady.  But you shall know all as soon as you shall be calmer.  Pray, therefore, once again sit down, batuchka!  Try and recover your spirits—­you seem quite unhinged.”

Raskolnikoff rose while looking at him with an air full of contempt.  “Tell me once for all,” asked the latter, “tell me one way or other, whether I am in your opinion an object for suspicion?  Speak up, Porphyrius Petrovitch, and explain yourself without any more beating about the bush, and that forthwith!”