second he held the door open,
but he had caught a glimpse of the face of Kirillov standing at the
other end of the room by the window, and the savage fury with which the
latter had rushed upon him. Pyotr Stepanovitch started, rapidly set the
candle on the table, made ready his revolver, and retreated on tiptoe to
the farthest corner of the room, so that if Kirillov opened the door and
rushed up to the table with the revolver he would still have time to be
the first to aim and fire.

Pyotr Stepanovitch had by now lost all faith in the suicide. "He was
standing in the middle of the room, thinking," flashed like a whirlwind
through Pyotr Stepanovitch's mind, "and the room was dark and horrible
too.... He roared and rushed at me. There are two possibilities: either
I interrupted him at the very second when he was pulling the trigger
or... or he was standing planning how to kill me. Yes, that's it, he was
planning it.... He knows I won't go away without killing him if he funks
it himself--so that he would have to kill me first to prevent my killing
him.... And again, again there is silence. I am really frightened: he
may open the door all of a sudden.... The nuisance of it is that he
believes in God like any priest.... He won't shoot himself for
anything! There are lots of these people nowadays 'who've come to it of
themselves.' A rotten lot! Oh, damn it, the candle, the candle! It'll go
out within a quarter of an hour for certain.... I must put a stop to it;
come what may, I must put a stop to it.... Now I can kill him.... With
that document here no one would think of my killing him. I can put him
in such an attitude oh the floor with an unloaded revolver in his hand
that they'd be certain he'd done it himself.... Ach, damn it! how is one
to kill him? If I open the door he'll rush out again and shoot me first.
Damn it all, he'll be sure to miss!"

He was in agonies, trembling at the necessity of action and his own
indecision. At last he took up the candle and again approached the door
with the revolver held up in readiness; he put his left hand, in which
he held the candle, on the doorhandle. But he managed awkwardly:
the handle clanked, there was a rattle and a creak. "He will fire
straightway," flashed through Pyotr Stepanovitch's mind. With his foot
he flung the door open violently, raised the candle, and held out the
revolver; but no shot nor cry came from within.... There was no one in
the room.

He started. The ro