object in delaying the execution. The order to carry out the
sentence was sent by telegraph at noon. I wrote out the telegram myself.
He was hanged at four o'clock this afternoon."

The definite information of Haldin's death gave Razumov the feeling of
general lassitude which follows a great exertion or a great excitement.
He kept very still on the sofa, but a murmur escaped him--

"He had a belief in a future existence."

Councillor Mikulin shrugged his shoulders slightly, and Razumov got up
with an effort. There was nothing now to stay for in that room. Haldin
had been hanged at four o'clock. There could be no doubt of that. He
had, it seemed, entered upon his future existence, long boots, Astrakhan
fur cap and all, down to the very leather strap round his waist. A
flickering, vanishing sort of existence. It was not his soul, it was his
mere phantom he had left behind on this earth--thought Razumov, smiling
caustically to himself while he crossed the room, utterly forgetful of
where he was and of Councillor Mikulin's existence. The official could
have set a lot of bells ringing all over the building without leaving
his chair. He let Razumov go quite up to the door before he spoke.

"Come, Kirylo Sidorovitch--what are you doing?"

Razumov turned his head and looked at him in silence. He was not in the
least disconcerted. Councillor Mikulin's arms were stretched out on the
table before him and his body leaned forward a little with an effort of
his dim gaze.

"Was I actually going to clear out like this?" Razumov wondered
at himself with an impassive countenance. And he was aware of this
impassiveness concealing a lucid astonishment.

"Evidently I was going out if he had not spoken," he thought. "What
would he have done then? I must end this affair one way or another. I
must make him show his hand."

For a moment longer he reflected behind the mask as it were, then let go
the door-handle and came back to the middle of the room.

"I'll tell you what you think," he said explosively, but not raising his
voice. "You think that you are dealing with a secret accomplice of that
unhappy man. No, I do not know that he was unhappy. He did not tell me.
He was a wretch from my point of view, because to keep alive a false
idea is a greater crime than to kill a man. I suppose you will not deny
that? I hated him! Visionaries work everlasting evil on earth. Their
Utopias inspire in the mass of mediocre minds a disgust of realit