With those ideas of industry in his head the warmth of his room was agreeable and encouraging.  “I shall put in four hours of good work,” he thought.  But no sooner had he closed the door than he was horribly startled.  All black against the usual tall stove of white tiles gleaming in the dusk, stood a strange figure, wearing a skirted, close-fitting, brown cloth coat strapped round the waist, in long boots, and with a little Astrakhan cap on its head.  It loomed lithe and martial.  Razumov was utterly confounded.  It was only when the figure advancing two paces asked in an untroubled, grave voice if the outer door was closed that he regained his power of speech.

“Haldin!...  Victor Victorovitch!...  Is that you?...  Yes.  The outer door is shut all right.  But this is indeed unexpected.”

Victor Haldin, a student older than most of his contemporaries at the University, was not one of the industrious set.  He was hardly ever seen at lectures; the authorities had marked him as “restless” and “unsound “—­very bad notes.  But he had a great personal prestige with his comrades and influenced their thoughts.  Razumov had never been intimate with him.  They had met from time to time at gatherings in other students’ houses.  They had even had a discussion together—­one of those discussions on first principles dear to the sanguine minds of youth.

Razumov wished the man had chosen some other time to come for a chat.  He felt in good trim to tackle the prize essay.  But as Haldin could not be slightingly dismissed Razumov adopted the tone of hospitality, asking him to sit down and smoke.

“Kirylo Sidorovitch,” said the other, flinging off his cap, “we are not perhaps in exactly the same camp.  Your judgment is more philosophical.  You are a man of few words, but I haven’t met anybody who dared to doubt the generosity of your sentiments.  There is a solidity about your character which cannot exist without courage.”

Razumov felt flattered and began to murmur shyly something about being very glad of his good opinion, when Haldin raised his hand.

“That is what I was saying to myself,” he continued, “as I dodged in the woodyard down by the river-side.  ’He has a strong character this young man,’ I said to myself.  ‘He does not throw his soul to the winds.’  Your reserve has always fascinated me, Kirylo Sidorovitch.  So I tried to remember your address.  But look here—­it was a piece of luck.  Your dvornik was away from the gate talking to a sleigh-driver on the other side of the street.  I met no one on the stairs, not a soul.  As I came up to your floor I caught sight of your landlady coming out of your rooms.  But she did not see me.  She crossed the landing to her own side, and then I slipped in.  I have been here two hours expecting you to come in every moment.”

Razumov had listened in astonishment; but before he could open his mouth Haldin added, speaking deliberately, “It was I who removed de P—–­ this morning.”  Razumov kept down a cry of dismay.  The sentiment of his life being utterly ruined by this contact with such a crime expressed itself quaintly by a sort of half-derisive mental exclamation, “There goes my silver medal!”