“It was likely enough.  Hard as I had struggled to smother the tumult of emotions that seethed within me, some disturbance must have reached the surface, some light in the eye, some tension of the mouth to tell of the fierce excitement, the raging anxiety, that possessed me.  I was afraid to look at him for fear of frightening him away.

“Was he the man?  Was this the murderer, Piragoff, the slayer of my wife?  The question rang in my ears as, with a far from steady hand, I slowly lathered his face.  Instinct told me that he was.  But, even in my excitement, reason rejected a mere unanalyzable belief.  For what is an intuition?  Brutally stated, it is simply a conclusion reached without premises.  I had always disbelieved in instinct and intuition and I disbelieved still.  But what had made me connect this man with Piragoff?  He was clearly a Russian.  He looked like a villain.  He had the manner of a Nihilist or violent criminal of some kind.  But all this was nothing.  It formed no rational basis for the conviction that possessed me.

“There was his hair; a coarse, wiry mop of a queer grayish-brown.  It might well, from its color, be ringed hair; and if it was I should have little doubt of the man’s identity.  But was it?  I was getting on in years and could not see near objects clearly without my spectacles; and I had laid down my spectacles somewhere in the parlor.

“As I lathered his face, I leaned over him to look at his hair more closely, but he shrank away in fierce alarm, and after all my eyesight was not good enough.  Once I tried to get out my lens; but he challenged me furiously as to my object, and I put it away again.  I dared not provoke him to violence, for if he had struck me I should have killed him on the spot.  And he might be the wrong man.

“The operation of shaving him was beset with temptations from moment to moment.  Forgotten anatomical details revived in my memory.  I found myself tracing through the coarse skin those underlying structures that were so near to hand.  Now I was at the angle of the jaw, and as the ringing blade swept over the skin I traced the edge of the strap-like muscle and mentally marked the spot where it crossed the great carotid artery.  I could even detect the pulsation of the vessel.  How near it was to the surface!  A little dip of the razor’s beak at that spot—­

“But still I had no clear evidence that he was the right man.  A mere impression—­a feeling of physical repulsion unsupported by any tangible fact—­was not enough to act on.  One moment a savage impatience for retribution urged me to take the chance; to fell him with a blow and fling him down into the cellar.  The next, my reason stepped in and bade me hold my hand and wait for proof.  And all the time he watched me like a cat, and kept his hands thrust into the hip pockets of his coat.

“Again and again these mental oscillations occurred.  Now I was simply and savagely homicidal, and now I was rational—­almost judicial.  Now the vital necessity was to prevent his escape; and yet, again, I shrank from the dreadful risk of killing an innocent man.