“I understand it all now,” he exclaimed, with awestruck dismay.  “I understand—­at last.”

Razumov staggered back against the table.  His forehead broke out in perspiration while a cold shudder ran down his spine.

“What have I been saying?” he asked himself.  “Have I let him slip through my fingers after all?”

“He felt his lips go stiff like buckram, and instead of a reassuring smile only achieved an uncertain grimace.

“What will you have?” he began in a conciliating voice which got steady after the first trembling word or two.  “What will you have?  Consider—­a man of studious, retired habits—­and suddenly like this....  I am not practised in talking delicately.  But...”

He felt anger, a wicked anger, get hold of him again.

“What were we to do together till midnight?  Sit here opposite each other and think of your—­your—­shambles?”

Haldin had a subdued, heartbroken attitude.  He bowed his head; his hands hung between his knees.  His voice was low and pained but calm.

“I see now how it is, Razumov—­brother.  You are a magnanimous soul, but my action is abhorrent to you—­alas....”

Razumov stared.  From fright he had set his teeth so hard that his whole face ached.  It was impossible for him to make a sound.

“And even my person, too, is loathsome to you perhaps,” Haldin added mournfully, after a short pause, looking up for a moment, then fixing his gaze on the floor.  “For indeed, unless one....”

He broke off evidently waiting for a word.  Razumov remained silent.  Haldin nodded his head dejectedly twice.

“Of course.  Of course,” he murmured....  “Ah! weary work!”

He remained perfectly still for a moment, then made Razumov’s leaden heart strike a ponderous blow by springing up briskly.

“So be it,” he cried sadly in a low, distinct tone.  “Farewell then.”

Razumov started forward, but the sight of Haldin’s raised hand checked him before he could get away from the table.  He leaned on it heavily, listening to the faint sounds of some town clock tolling the hour.  Haldin, already at the door, tall and straight as an arrow, with his pale face and a hand raised attentively, might have posed for the statue of a daring youth listening to an inner voice.  Razumov mechanically glanced down at his watch.  When he looked towards the door again Haldin had vanished.  There was a faint rustling in the outer room, the feeble click of a bolt drawn back lightly.  He was gone—­almost as noiseless as a vision.

Razumov ran forward unsteadily, with parted, voiceless lips.  The outer door stood open.  Staggering out on the landing, he leaned far over the banister.  Gazing down into the deep black shaft with a tiny glimmering flame at the bottom, he traced by ear the rapid spiral descent of somebody running down the stairs on tiptoe.  It was a light, swift, pattering sound, which sank away from him into the depths:  a fleeting shadow passed over the glimmer—­a wink of the tiny flame.  Then stillness.