“As to what remains obscure in the fate of that poor Haldin,” Sophia Antonovna dropped into a slowness of utterance which was to Razumov like the falling of molten lead drop by drop; “as to that—­though no one ever hinted that either from fear or neglect your conduct has not been what it should have been—­well, I have a bit of intelligence....”

Razumov could not prevent himself from raising his head, and Sophia Antonovna nodded slightly.

“I have.  You remember that letter from St. Petersburg I mentioned to you a moment ago?”

“The letter?  Perfectly.  Some busybody has been reporting my conduct on a certain day.  It’s rather sickening.  I suppose our police are greatly edified when they open these interesting and—­and—­superfluous letters.”

“Oh dear no!  The police do not get hold of our letters as easily as you imagine.  The letter in question did not leave St. Petersburg till the ice broke up.  It went by the first English steamer which left the Neva this spring.  They have a fireman on board—­one of us, in fact.  It has reached me from Hull....”

She paused as if she were surprised at the sullen fixity of Razumov’s gaze, but went on at once, and much faster.

“We have some of our people there who...but never mind.  The writer of the letter relates an incident which he thinks may possibly be connected with Haldin’s arrest.  I was just going to tell you when those two men came along.”

“That also was an incident,” muttered Razumov, “of a very charming kind—­for me.”

“Leave off that!” cried Sophia Antonovna.  “Nobody cares for Nikita’s barking.  There’s no malice in him.  Listen to what I have to say.  You may be able to throw a light.  There was in St. Petersburg a sort of town peasant—­a man who owned horses.  He came to town years ago to work for some relation as a driver and ended by owning a cab or two.”

She might well have spared herself the slight effort of the gesture:  “Wait!” Razumov did not mean to speak; he could not have interrupted her now, not to save his life.  The contraction of his facial muscles had been involuntary, a mere surface stir, leaving him sullenly attentive as before.

“He was not a quite ordinary man of his class—­it seems,” she went on.  “The people of the house—­my informant talked with many of them—­you know, one of those enormous houses of shame and misery....”

Sophia Antonovna need not have enlarged on the character of the house.  Razumov saw clearly, towering at her back, a dark mass of masonry veiled in snowflakes, with the long row of windows of the eating-shop shining greasily very near the ground.  The ghost of that night pursued him.  He stood up to it with rage and with weariness.

“Did the late Haldin ever by chance speak to you of that house?” Sophia Antonovna was anxious to know.

“Yes.”  Razumov, making that answer, wondered whether he were falling into a trap.  It was so humiliating to lie to these people that he probably could not have said no.  “He mentioned to me once,” he added, as if making an effort of memory, “a house of that sort.  He used to visit some workmen there.”