Nobody will be surprised to hear, I suppose, that when the summons came he went to see Councillor Mikulin.  It came that very morning, while, looking white and shaky, like an invalid just out of bed, he was trying to shave himself.  The envelope was addressed in the little attorney’s handwriting.  That envelope contained another, superscribed to Razumov, in Prince K—–­’s hand, with the request “Please forward under cover at once” in a corner.  The note inside was an autograph of Councillor Mikulin.  The writer stated candidly that nothing had arisen which needed clearing up, but nevertheless appointed a meeting with Mr. Razumov at a certain address in town which seemed to be that of an oculist.

Razumov read it, finished shaving, dressed, looked at the note again, and muttered gloomily, “Oculist.”  He pondered over it for a time, lit a match, and burned the two envelopes and the enclosure carefully.  Afterwards he waited, sitting perfectly idle and not even looking at anything in particular till the appointed hour drew near—­and then went out.

Whether, looking at the unofficial character of the summons, he might have refrained from attending to it is hard to say.  Probably not.  At any rate, he went; but, what’s more, he went with a certain eagerness, which may appear incredible till it is remembered that Councillor Mikulin was the only person on earth with whom Razumov could talk, taking the Haldin adventure for granted.  And Haldin, when once taken for granted, was no longer a haunting, falsehood-breeding spectre.  Whatever troubling power he exercised in all the other places of the earth, Razumov knew very well that at this oculist’s address he would be merely the hanged murderer of M. de P—–­ and nothing more.  For the dead can live only with the exact intensity and quality of the life imparted to them by the living.  So Mr. Razumov, certain of relief, went to meet Councillor Mikulin with he eagerness of a pursued person welcoming any sort of shelter.

This much said, there is no need to tell anything more of that first interview and of the several others.  To the morality of a Western reader an account of these meetings would wear perhaps the sinister character of old legendary tales where the Enemy of Mankind is represented holding subtly mendacious dialogues with some tempted soul.  It is not my part to protest.  Let me but remark that the Evil One, with his single passion of satanic pride for the only motive, is yet, on a larger, modern view, allowed to be not quite so black as he used to be painted.  With what greater latitude, then, should we appraise the exact shade of mere mortal man, with his many passions and his miserable ingenuity in error, always dazzled by the base glitter of mixed motives, everlastingly betrayed by a short-sighted wisdom.