The examining magistrate sank back in his chair as though astonished at such a question.  “Who committed the murder?” he retorted, as if he could not believe his own ears.  “Why, you—­you did, Rodion Romanovitch!  You!—­” he added, almost in a whisper, and in a tone of profound conviction.

Raskolnikoff suddenly rose, waited for a few moments, and sat down again, without uttering a single word.  All the muscles of his face were slightly convulsed.

“Why, I see your lips tremble just as they did the other day,” observed Porphyrius Petrovitch, with an air of interest.  “You have not, I think, thoroughly realized the object of my visit, Rodion Romanovitch,” he pursued, after a moment’s silence, “hence your great astonishment.  I have called with the express intention of plain speaking, and to reveal the truth.”

“It was not I who committed the murder,” stammered the young man, defending himself very much like a child caught in the act of doing wrong.

“Yes, yes, it was you, Rodion Romanovitch, it was you, and you alone,” replied the magistrate with severity.  “Confess or not, as you think best; for the time being, that is nothing to me.  In either case, my conviction is arrived at.”

“If that is so, why have you called?” asked Raskolnikoff angrily.  “I once more repeat the question I have put you:  If you think me guilty, why not issue a warrant against me?”

“What a question!  But I will answer you categorically.  To begin with, your arrest would not benefit me!”

“It would not benefit you?  How can that be?  From the moment of being convinced, you ought to——­”

“What is the use of my conviction, after all?  For the time being, it is only built on sand.  And why should I have you placed at rest? Of course, I purpose having you arrested—­I have called to give you a hint to that effect—­and yet I do not hesitate to tell you that I shall gain nothing by it.  Considering, therefore, the interest I feel for you, I earnestly urge you to go and acknowledge your crime.  I called before to give the same advice.  It is by far the wisest thing you can do—­for you as well as for myself, who will then wash my hands of the affair.  Now, am I candid enough?”

Raskolnikoff considered a moment.  “Listen to me, Porphyrius Petrovitch!  To use your own statement, you have against me nothing but psychological sentiments, and yet you aspire to mathematical evidence.  Who has told you that you are absolutely right?”

“Yes, Rodion Romanovitch, I am absolutely right.  I hold a proof!  And this proof I came in possession of the other day:  God has sent it me!”

“What is it?”