Svidrigailov was already sitting in the carriage. Raskolnikov judged that his suspicions, at least this time, were unwarranted. Without a word of reply, he turned and went back in the direction of the Hay-market. If he had looked behind him at least once on his way, he would have had time to see how Svidrigailov, after driving no more than a hundred paces, paid for the carriage and ended up on the sidewalk himself. But he could no longer see anything, and had already turned the corner. A profound loathing drew him away from Svidrigailov. “How could I, even for a moment, expect something from this crude villain, this sensual profligate and scoundrel!” he exclaimed involuntarily. True, Raskolnikov pronounced his judgment too hastily and light-mindedly. There was something in all that had to do with Svidrigailov which endowed him with at least a certain originality, if not mysteriousness. And as far as his sister was concerned in all this, here Raskolnikov remained convinced quite assuredly that Svidrigailov would not leave her alone. But it was becoming too difficult and unbearable to go on thinking and rethinking it all!

As usual, once he was alone, after going about twenty steps, he fell into deep thoughtfulness. Having walked out onto the bridge, he stopped by the railing and began looking at the water. And meanwhile Avdotya Romanovna was standing close by him.

He had met her as he started across the bridge but had passed by without noticing her. Dunechka had never before met him like this in the street, and was struck to the point of fear. She stopped and did not know whether to call out to him or not. Suddenly she noticed Svidrigailov coming hurriedly from the direction of the Haymarket.

He seemed to be approaching secretively and cautiously. He did not walk out on the bridge, but stopped to one side on the sidewalk, trying as well as he could not to be seen by Raskolnikov. He had noticed Dunya long since and began making signs to her. It appeared to her from his signs that he was begging her not to call her brother, but to leave him alone and come to him.

And Dunya did so. She quietly passed around her brother and went up to Svidrigailov.

“Come along, quickly,” Svidrigailov whispered to her. “I do not wish Rodion Romanovich to know of our meeting. I must warn you that I've just been sitting with him, not far from here, in a tavern, where he came looking for me himself, and I had trouble getting rid of him. He somehow knows about my letter to you and suspects something. Of course, it was not you who revealed it? But if not, then who was it?”

“Here, we've already turned the corner,” Dunya interrupted, “my brother won't see us now. I declare to you that I will not go farther with you. Tell me everything here; it can all be said in the street.”

“First, it can by no means be said in the street; second, you must also hear Sofya Semyonovna; third, I have some documents to show you...Well, and finally, if you won't agree to come to my place, I'll give up all explanations and leave at once. At the same time I beg you not to forget that a rather curious secret of your beloved brother's is entirely in my hands.”

Dunya stood hesitantly, and looked at Svidrigailov with piercing eyes.

“What are you afraid of?” the latter remarked calmly. “The city is not the country. And in the country you caused me more harm than I did you, but here...”

“Has Sofya Semyonovna been warned?”

“No, I didn't say a word to her, and am not even sure that she's at home now. However, she probably is. She buried her relation today: on such a day one doesn't go around visiting. For the time being I don't want to tell anyone about it, and even partly regret having told you. At this point the slightest imprudence is the same as a denunciation. I live just here, here in this house, the one we're coming to. Here's our caretaker; the caretaker knows me very well; look, he's bowing; he sees me coming with a lady, and of course has already managed to notice your face—that will prove useful to you, if you're very afraid and suspicious of me. Excuse me for speaking so crudely. I'm subletting from tenants. Sofya Semyonovna lives on the other side of my wall; she also sublets from tenants. The whole floor is full of tenants. Why are you afraid, then, like a child? Or am I really so frightening?”

Svidrigailov's face twisted into a condescending smile, but he could no longer bother about smiling. His heart was pounding, and his breath was taken away. He deliberately raised his voice to conceal his growing excitement, but Dunya failed to notice this special excitement; she was too irritated by his remark that she was afraid of him like a child and found him so frightening.

“Though I know that you are a man...without honor, I am not in the least afraid of you. Go ahead,” she said with apparent calm, but her face was very pale.

Svidrigailov stopped at Sonya's apartment.

“Allow me to inquire whether she is at home. No. Worse luck! But I know she can come any minute. If she's stepped out, it must be to see a certain lady, about the orphans. Their mother has died. I also mixed into it and made arrangements. If Sofya Semyonovna doesn't come back in ten minutes, I'll send her to you, this very day if you like; now here's my apartment. Here are my two rooms. My landlady, Mrs. Resslich, lives behind that door. Now look here, I'll show you my main documents: this door leads from my bedroom to two completely vacant rooms, which are for rent. Here they are...you should take a somewhat more attentive look at this . . .”

Svidrigailov occupied two rather spacious furnished rooms. Dunya was looking around mistrustfully, but did not notice anything special either in the decor or in the layout of the rooms, though there were things to be noticed—for instance, that Svidrigailov's apartment was somehow placed between two almost uninhabited apartments. His entrance was not direct from the corridor, but through the landlady's two rooms, which were nearly empty. And, having opened the locked door from the bedroom, Svidrigailov showed Dunya the other apartment, also empty, which was for rent. Dunya stood on the threshold, not understanding why she was being invited to look, but Svidrigailov hastened to explain.

“Now, look here, in this second large room. Notice this door; it's locked. By the door there's a chair, the only chair in either room. I brought it from my apartment, to listen more comfortably. Just the other side of the door stands Sofya Semyonovna's table; she was sitting there, talking with Rodion Romanych. And I was here eavesdropping, sitting on the chair, two evenings in a row, each time for two hours or so—and, of course, I'd be able to find something out, don't you think?”

“You were eavesdropping?”

“Yes, I was eavesdropping; now come back to my place; there's nowhere even to sit down here.”

He led Avdotya Romanovna back to his first room, which served him as a living room, and offered her a chair. He himself sat at the other end of the table, at least seven feet away from her, but probably his eyes were already shining with the same flame that had once so frightened Dunechka. She gave a start and again looked around mistrustfully. It was an involuntary gesture; she clearly did not want to show her mistrust. But the isolated situation of Svidrigailov's apartment finally struck her. She would have liked to ask at least if the landlady was at home, but she did not ask...out of pride. Besides, there was in her heart another, immeasurably greater suffering than fear for herself. She was unbearably tormented.

“Here is your letter,” she began, placing it on the table. “How can what you write be possible? You allude to a crime supposedly committed by my brother. You allude to it all too clearly, you cannot talk your way out of it now. Know, then, that I heard that stupid tale even before this, and I do not believe a single word of it. It is a vile and ridiculous suspicion. I know the story, and how and why it was invented. You cannot possibly have any proof. You promised to prove it: speak, then! But know beforehand that I don't believe you! I don't! . . .”