Razumov, remembering the thick-set man with his heavy jowl resting on the collar of his uniform, the champion of autocracy, who had let no sign of surprise, incredulity, or joy escape him, but whose goggle eyes could express a mortal hatred of all rebellion—­Razumov moved uneasily on the bed.

“He suspected me,” he thought.  “I suppose he must suspect everybody.  He would be capable of suspecting his own wife, if Haldin had gone to her boudoir with his confession.”

Razumov sat up in anguish.  Was he to remain a political suspect all his days?  Was he to go through life as a man not wholly to be trusted—­with a bad secret police note tacked on to his record?  What sort of future could he look forward to?

“I am now a suspect,” he thought again; but the habit of reflection and that desire of safety, of an ordered life, which was so strong in him came to his assistance as the night wore on.  His quiet, steady, and laborious existence would vouch at length for his loyalty.  There were many permitted ways to serve one’s country.  There was an activity that made for progress without being revolutionary.  The field of influence was great and infinitely varied—­once one had conquered a name.

His thought like a circling bird reverted after four-and-twenty hours to the silver medal, and as it were poised itself there.

When the day broke he had not slept, not for a moment, but he got up not very tired and quite sufficiently self-possessed for all practical purposes.

He went out and attended three lectures in the morning.  But the work in the library was a mere dumb show of research.  He sat with many volumes open before him trying to make notes and extracts.  His new tranquillity was like a flimsy garment, and seemed to float at the mercy of a casual word.  Betrayal!  Why! the fellow had done all that was necessary to betray himself.  Precious little had been needed to deceive him.

“I have said no word to him that was not strictly true.  Not one word,” Razumov argued with himself.

Once engaged on this line of thought there could be no question of doing useful work.  The same ideas went on passing through his mind, and he pronounced mentally the same words over and over again.  He shut up all the books and rammed all his papers into his pocket with convulsive movements, raging inwardly against Haldin.

As he was leaving the library a long bony student in a threadbare overcoat joined him, stepping moodily by his side.  Razumov answered his mumbled greeting without looking at him at all.

“What does he want with me?” he thought with a strange dread of the unexpected which he tried to shake off lest it should fasten itself upon his life for good and all.  And the other, muttering cautiously with downcast eyes, supposed that his comrade had seen the news of de P—–­’s executioner—­that was the expression he used—­having been arrested the night before last....