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."

Razumov moved his shoulders slightly.

"Or is it that some secret enemy has been calumniating you, Kirylo
Sidorovitch? The world is full of black hearts and false denunciations
nowadays. There is much fear about."

"Have you heard that I have been denounced by some one?" asked Razumov,
without taking his eyes off her quivering face.

But she had not heard anything. She had tried to find out by asking
the police captain while his men were turning the room upside down. The
police captain of the district had known her for the last eleven years
and was a humane person. But he said to her on the landing, looking very
black and vexed--

"My good woman, do not ask questions. I don't know anything myself. The
order comes from higher quarters."

And indeed there had appeared, shortly after the arrival of the
policemen of the district, a very superior gentleman in a fur coat and
a shiny hat, who sat down in the room and looked through all the papers
himself. He came alone and went away by himself, taking nothing with
him. She had been trying to put things straight a little since they
left.

Razumov turned away brusquely and entered his rooms.

All his books had been shaken and thrown on the floor. His landlady
followed him, and stooping painfully began to pick them up into her
apron. His papers and notes which were kept always neatly sorted (they
all related to his studies) had been shuffled up and heaped together
into a ragged pile in the middle of the table.

This disor