He smiled inwardly at the absolute wrong-headedness of the whole thing, the self-deception of a criminal idealist shattering his existence like a thunder-clap out of a clear sky, and re-echoing amongst the wreckage in the false assumptions of those other fools.  Fancy that hungry and piteous imbecile furnishing to the curiosity of the revolutionist refugees this utterly fantastic detail!  He appreciated it as by no means constituting a danger.  On the contrary.  As things stood it was for his advantage rather, a piece of sinister luck which had only to be accepted with proper caution.

“And yet, Razumov,” he heard the musing voice of the woman, “you have not the face of a lucky man.”  She raised her eyes with renewed interest.  “And so that was the way of it.  After doing your work you simply walked off and made for your rooms.  That sort of thing succeeds sometimes.  I suppose it was agreed beforehand that, once the business over, each of you would go his own way?”

Razumov preserved the seriousness of his expression and the deliberate, if cautious, manner of speaking.

“Was not that the best thing to do?” he asked, in a dispassionate tone.  “And anyway,” he added, after waiting a moment, “we did not give much thought to what would come after.  We never discussed formally any line of conduct.  It was understood, I think.”

She approved his statement with slight nods.

“You, of course, wished to remain in Russia?”

“In St. Petersburg itself,” emphasized Razumov.  “It was the only safe course for me.  And, moreover, I had nowhere else to go.”

“Yes!  Yes!  I know.  Clearly.  And the other—­this wonderful Haldin appearing only to be regretted—­you don’t know what he intended?”

Razumov had foreseen that such a question would certainly come to meet him sooner or later.  He raised his hands a little and let them fall helplessly by his side—­nothing more.

It was the white-haired woman conspirator who was the first to break the silence.

“Very curious,” she pronounced slowly.  “And you did not think, Kirylo Sidorovitch, that he might perhaps wish to get in touch with you again?”

Razumov discovered that he could not suppress the trembling of his lips.  But he thought that he owed it to himself to speak.  A negative sign would not do again.  Speak he must, if only to get at the bottom of what that St. Petersburg letter might have contained.

“I stayed at home next day,” he said, bending down a little and plunging his glance into the black eyes of the woman so that she should not observe the trembling of his lips.  “Yes, I stayed at home.  As my actions are remembered and written about, then perhaps you are aware that I was not seen at the lectures next day.  Eh?  You didn’t know?  Well, I stopped at home-the live-long day.”

As if moved by his agitated tone, she murmured a sympathetic “I see!  It must have been trying enough.”