take a flat," he said. "I am looking round."

"It's not the time to look at rooms at night! and you ought to come up
with the porter."

"The floors have been washed, will they be painted?" Raskolnikov went
on. "Is there no blood?"

"What blood?"

"Why, the old woman and her sister were murdered here. There was a
perfect pool there."

"But who are you?" the workman cried, uneasy.

"Who am I?"

"Yes."

"You want to know? Come to the police station, I'll tell you."

The workmen looked at him in amazement.

"It's time for us to go, we are late. Come along, Alyoshka. We must lock
up," said the elder workman.

"Very well, come along," said Raskolnikov indifferently, and going
out first, he went slowly downstairs. "Hey, porter," he cried in the
gateway.

At the entrance several people were standing, staring at the passers-by;
the two porters, a peasant woman, a man in a long coat and a few others.
Raskolnikov went straight up to them.

"What do you want?" asked one of the porters.

"Have you been to the police office?"

"I've just been there. What do you want?"

"Is it open?"

"Of course."

"Is the assistant there?"

"He was there for a time. What do you want?"

Raskolnikov made no reply, but stood beside them lost in thought.

"He's been to look at the flat," said the elder workman, coming forward.

"Which flat?"

"Where we are at work. 'Why have you washed away the blood?' says he.
'There has been a murder here,' says he, 'and I've come to take it.'
And he began ringing at the bell, all but broke it. 'Come to the police
station,' says he. 'I'll tell you everything there.' He wouldn't leave
us."

The porter looked at Raskolnikov, frowning and perplexed.

"Who are you?" he shouted as impressively as he could.

"I am Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov, formerly a student, I live in
Shil's house, not far from here, flat Number 14, ask the porter, he
knows me." Raskolnikov said all this in a lazy, dreamy voice, not
turning round, but looking intently into the darkening street.

"Why have you been to the flat?"

"To look at it."

"What is there to look at?"

"Take him straight to the police station," the man in the long coat
jerked in abruptly.

Raskolnikov looked intently at him over his shoulder and said in the
same slow, lazy tones:

"Come along."

"Yes, take him," the man went on more confidently. "Why was he going
into _that_, what's in his mind, eh?"

"He's not drunk, but God kno