Sophia Antonovna drew her conclusions from the tale.  She charged Ziemianitch either with drunken indiscretion as to a driving job on a certain date, overheard by some spy in some low grog-shop—­perhaps in the very eating-shop on the ground floor of the house—­or, maybe, a downright denunciation, followed by remorse.  A man like that would be capable of anything.  People said he was a flighty old chap.  And if he had been once before mixed up with the police—­as seemed certain, though he always denied it—­in connexion with these thieves, he would be sure to be acquainted with some police underlings, always on the look out for something to report.  Possibly at first his tale was not made anything of till the day that scoundrel de P—–­ got his deserts.  Ah!  But then every bit and scrap of hint and information would be acted on, and fatally they were bound to get Haldin.

Sophia Antonovna spread out her hands—­“Fatally.”

Fatality—­chance!  Razumov meditated in silent astonishment upon the queer verisimilitude of these inferences.  They were obviously to his advantage.

“It is right now to make this conclusive evidence known generally.”  Sophia Antonovna was very calm and deliberate again.  She had received the letter three days ago, but did not write at once to Peter Ivanovitch.  She knew then that she would have the opportunity presently of meeting several men of action assembled for an important purpose.

“I thought it would be more effective if I could show the letter itself at large.  I have it in my pocket now.  You understand how pleased I was to come upon you.”

Razumov was saying to himself, “She won’t offer to show the letter to me.  Not likely.  Has she told me everything that correspondent of hers has found out?” He longed to see the letter, but he felt he must not ask.

“Tell me, please, was this an investigation ordered, as it were?”

“No, no,” she protested.  “There you are again with your sensitiveness.  It makes you stupid.  Don’t you see, there was no starting-point for an investigation even if any one had thought of it.  A perfect blank!  That’s exactly what some people were pointing out as the reason for receiving you cautiously.  It was all perfectly accidental, arising from my informant striking an acquaintance with an intelligent skindresser lodging in that particular slum-house.  A wonderful coincidence!”

“A pious person,” suggested Razumov, with a pale smile, “would say that the hand of God has done it all.”

“My poor father would have said that.”  Sophia Antonovna did not smile.  She dropped her eyes.  “Not that his God ever helped him.  It’s a long time since God has done anything for the people.  Anyway, it’s done.”

“All this would be quite final,” said Razumov, with every appearance of reflective impartiality, “if there was any certitude that the ’our young gentleman’ of these people was Victor Haldin.  Have we got that?”