He must have heard at some time or other and now remembered unconsciously that there was to be a gathering of revolutionists at the house of Julius Laspara that evening.  At any rate, he made straight for the Laspara house, and found himself without surprise ringing at its street door, which, of course, was closed.  By that time the thunderstorm had attacked in earnest.  The steep incline of the street ran with water, the thick fall of rain enveloped him like a luminous veil in the play of lightning.  He was perfectly calm, and, between the crashes, listened attentively to the delicate tinkling of the doorbell somewhere within the house.

There was some difficulty before he was admitted.  His person was not known to that one of the guests who had volunteered to go downstairs and see what was the matter.  Razumov argued with him patiently.  There could be no harm in admitting a caller.  He had something to communicate to the company upstairs.

“Something of importance?”

“That’ll be for the hearers to judge.”

“Urgent?”

“Without a moment’s delay.”

Meantime, one of the Laspara daughters descended the stairs, small lamp in hand, in a grimy and crumpled gown, which seemed to hang on her by a miracle, and looking more than ever like an old doll with a dusty brown wig, dragged from under a sofa.  She recognized Razumov at once.

“How do you do?  Of course you may come in.”

Following her light, Razumov climbed two flights of stairs from the lower darkness.  Leaving the lamp on a bracket on the landing, she opened a door, and went in, accompanied by the sceptical guest.  Razumov entered last.  He closed the door behind him, and stepping on one side, put his back against the wall.

The three little rooms en suite, with low, smoky ceilings and lit by paraffin lamps, were crammed with people.  Loud talking was going on in all three, and tea-glasses, full, half-full, and empty, stood everywhere, even on the floor.  The other Laspara girl sat, dishevelled and languid, behind an enormous samovar.  In the inner doorway Razumov had a glimpse of the protuberance of a large stomach, which he recognized.  Only a few feet from him Julius Laspara was getting down hurriedly from his high stool.

The appearance of the midnight visitor caused no small sensation.  Laspara is very summary in his version of that night’s happenings.  After some words of greeting, disregarded by Razumov, Laspara (ignoring purposely his guest’s soaked condition and his extraordinary manner of presenting himself) mentioned something about writing an article.  He was growing uneasy, and Razumov appeared absent-minded.  “I have written already all I shall ever write,” he said at last, with a little laugh.

The whole company’s attention was riveted on the new-comer, dripping with water, deadly pale, and keeping his position against the wall.  Razumov put Laspara gently aside, as though he wished to be seen from head to foot by everybody.  By then the buzz of conversations had died down completely, even in the most distant of the three rooms.  The doorway facing Razumov became blocked by men and women, who craned their necks and certainly seemed to expect something startling to happen.