Razumov pressed his folded arms to the stone coping over which he was leaning with force.  “Won’t the truth do?  The truth for the crazy old mother of the—­”

The young man shuddered again.  Yes.  The truth would do!  Apparently it would do.  Exactly.  And receive thanks, he thought, formulating the unspoken words cynically.  “Fall on my neck in gratitude, no doubt,” he jeered mentally.  But this mood abandoned him at once.  He felt sad, as if his heart had become empty suddenly.  “Well, I must be cautious,” he concluded, coming to himself as though his brain had been awakened from a trance.  “There is nothing, no one, too insignificant, too absurd to be disregarded,” he thought wearily.  “I must be cautious.”

Razumov pushed himself with his hand away from the balustrade and, retracing his steps along the bridge, walked straight to his lodgings, where, for a few days, he led a solitary and retired existence.  He neglected Peter Ivanovitch, to whom he was accredited by the Stuttgart group; he never went near the refugee revolutionists, to whom he had been introduced on his arrival.  He kept out of that world altogether.  And he felt that such conduct, causing surprise and arousing suspicion, contained an element of danger for himself.

This is not to say that during these few days he never went out.  I met him several times in the streets, but he gave me no recognition.  Once, going home after an evening call on the ladies Haldin, I saw him crossing the dark roadway of the Boulevard des Philosophes.  He had a broad-brimmed soft hat, and the collar of his coat turned up.  I watched him make straight for the house, but, instead of going in, he stopped opposite the still lighted windows, and after a time went away down a side-street.

I knew that he had not been to see Mrs. Haldin yet.  Miss Haldin told me he was reluctant; moreover, the mental condition of Mrs. Haldin had changed.  She seemed to think now that her son was living, and she perhaps awaited his arrival.  Her immobility in the great arm-chair in front of the window had an air of expectancy, even when the blind was down and the lamps lighted.

For my part, I was convinced that she had received her death-stroke; Miss Haldin, to whom, of course, I said nothing of my forebodings, thought that no good would come from introducing Mr. Razumov just then, an opinion which I shared fully.  I knew that she met the young man on the Bastions.  Once or twice I saw them strolling slowly up the main alley.  They met every day for weeks.  I avoided passing that way during the hour when Miss Haldin took her exercise there.  One day, however, in a fit of absent-mindedness, I entered the gates and came upon her walking alone.  I stopped to exchange a few words.  Mr. Razumov failed to turn up, and we began to talk about him—­naturally.

“Did he tell you anything definite about your brother’s activities—­his end?” I ventured to ask.