“His people are abroad.”

He could have bitten his tongue out with vexation.  The student pronounced in a tone of profound meaning—­

“So!  You alone were aware,...” and stopped.

“They have sworn my ruin,” thought Razumov.  “Have you spoken of this to anyone else?” he asked with bitter curiosity.

The other shook his head.

“No, only to you.  Our circle thought that as Haldin had been often heard expressing a warm appreciation of your character....”

Razumov could not restrain a gesture of angry despair which the other must have misunderstood in some way, because he ceased speaking and turned away his black, lack-lustre eyes.

They moved side by side in silence.  Then the gaunt student began to whisper again, with averted gaze—­

“As we have at present no one affiliated inside the fortress so as to make it possible to furnish him with a packet of poison, we have considered already some sort of retaliatory action—­to follow very soon....”

Razumov trudging on interrupted—­

“Were you acquainted with Haldin?  Did he know where you live?”

“I had the happiness to hear him speak twice,” his companion answered in the feverish whisper contrasting with the gloomy apathy of his face and bearing.  “He did not know where I live....  I am lodging poorly with an artisan family....  I have just a corner in a room.  It is not very practicable to see me there, but if you should need me for anything I am ready....”

Razumov trembled with rage and fear.  He was beside himself, but kept his voice low.

“You are not to come near me.  You are not to speak to me.  Never address a single word to me.  I forbid you.”

“Very well,” said the other submissively, showing no surprise whatever at this abrupt prohibition.  “You don’t wish for secret reasons... perfectly...  I understand.”

He edged away at once, not looking up even; and Razumov saw his gaunt, shabby, famine-stricken figure cross the street obliquely with lowered head and that peculiar exact motion of the feet.

He watched him as one would watch a vision out of a nightmare, then he continued on his way, trying not to think.  On his landing the landlady seemed to be waiting for him.  She was a short, thick, shapeless woman with a large yellow face wrapped up everlastingly in a black woollen shawl.  When she saw him come up the last flight of stairs she flung both her arms up excitedly, then clasped her hands before her face.

“Kirylo Sidorovitch—­little father—­what have you been doing?  And such a quiet young man, too!  The police are just gone this moment after searching your rooms.”

Razumov gazed down at her with silent, scrutinizing attention.  Her puffy yellow countenance was working with emotion.  She screwed up her eyes at him entreatingly.

“Such a sensible young man!  Anybody can see you are sensible.  And now—­like this—­all at once....  What is the good of mixing yourself up with these Nihilists?  Do give over, little father.  They are unlucky people.”