“Sofya Semyonovna,” Raskolnikov corrected him. “Sofya Semyonovna, this is my friend Razumikhin, and a good man he is . . .”

“If you have to go now . . .” Sonya tried to begin, without so much as looking at Razumikhin, and becoming even more abashed as a result.

“Let's go, then!” Raskolnikov decided. “I'll call on you today, Sofya Semyonovna, only tell me, where do you live?”

It was not that he was confused, but as if he were hurrying and avoiding her eyes. Sonya gave him her address and blushed. They went out together.

“Don't you lock the door?” Razumikhin asked, coming down the stairs behind them.

“Never! ... Though I've been meaning to buy a lock for two years now,” he added casually. “Happy are those who have nothing to lock up?” he turned to Sonya, laughing.

Outside, they stopped in the gateway.

“Are you going to the right, Sofya Semyonovna? By the way, how did you find me?” he asked, as if wishing to tell her something quite different. He kept wanting to look into her quiet, clear eyes, but somehow kept being unable to . . .

“But you gave Polechka your address yesterday.”

“Polya? Ah, yes...Polechka! That...little one...is she your sister? So I gave her my address?”

“You mean you've forgotten?”

“No...I remember . . .”

“And I also heard about you before, from my late father...Only I didn't know your last name then, and he didn't know it himself...And I came just now...and since I learned your last name yesterday...I asked today, 'Where does Mr. Raskolnikov live?'...I didn't know you were also subletting a room...Good-bye, sir...I'll tell Katerina Ivanovna . . .”

She was terribly glad to get away at last; she walked looking down, hurrying, the sooner to be out of their sight, the sooner somehow to get through those twenty steps until she could turn the corner to the right and be alone at last, and then walk along, hurrying, not looking at anyone, not noticing anything, but thinking, remembering, pondering every word said, every circumstance. Never, never had she felt anything like this. A whole new world had descended vaguely and mysteriously into her soul. She suddenly remembered that Raskolnikov himself wanted to call on her that day, perhaps that same morning, perhaps at once!

“Only not today, please, not today!” she murmured with a sinking heart, as if pleading with someone, like a frightened child. “Lord! To me...in that room...he'll see...oh, Lord!”

And, of course, at that moment she could not have noticed the gentleman, unknown to her, who was keeping a close eye on her and following on her heels. He had been following her ever since she walked out the gate. When the three of them—she, Razumikhin, and Raskolnikov—stopped for a couple of words on the sidewalk, this passer-by, stepping around them, seemed suddenly to give a start, accidentally catching Sonya's words: “and I asked, where does Mr. Raskolnikov live?” He had looked quickly but attentively at all three of them, especially at Raskolnikov, whom Sonya was addressing; then he looked at the house and made a note of it. All this was done in a moment, as he walked, and the passer-by, trying not to let it show, went farther on, slowing his pace as if he were waiting. He was waiting for Sonya; he had seen that they were saying good-bye and that Sonya was about to go home.

“But where does she live? I've seen that face somewhere,” he thought, remembering Sonya's face...”I must find out.”

Coming to the corner, he crossed to the other side of the street, looked back, and saw that Sonya was already following after him, in the same direction, noticing nothing. Coming to the corner, she also turned down the same street. He followed her on the opposite sidewalk, without taking his eyes off her; after going some fifty steps, he crossed back to Sonya's side of the street, caught up with her, and kept on walking five steps behind her.

He was a man of about fifty, of above average height, portly, with broad and steep shoulders that gave him a stooping look. He was stylishly and comfortably dressed, and had the air of an imposing gentleman. He was carrying a beautiful cane with which he tapped the sidewalk at every step, and on his hands he wore a fresh pair of gloves. His broad face with its high cheekbones was quite pleasant, and he had a fresh, non-Petersburg complexion. His hair, still very thick, was quite blond, with perhaps only a touch of gray, and his broad, thick spade beard was even lighter than the hair on his head. His eyes were blue and had a cold, intent, and thoughtful look; his lips were scarlet. In general, he was an exceedingly well-preserved man, who seemed much younger than his years.

When Sonya came out to the canal, the two of them were alone on the sidewalk. Observing her, he had been able to notice how pensive and distracted she was. When she reached her house, Sonya turned in at the gate; he followed her, seeming somewhat surprised. Going into the courtyard, she turned to the right, towards the corner, where the stairway to her apartment was. “Hah!” the unknown gentleman muttered, and he started up the stairs behind her. Only then did Sonya notice him. She went up to the third floor, turned down the hallway, and rang at number nine, where the words kapernaumov, tailor were written on the door in chalk. “Hah!” the stranger repeated again, surprised at the strange coincidence, and rang at number eight next door. The two doors were about six paces apart.

“You live at Kapernaumov's!” he said, looking at Sonya and laughing. “He altered my waistcoat for me yesterday. And I'm staying here, next door to you, with Madame Resslich, Gertrude Karlovna. The way things do happen!”

Sonya looked at him attentively.

“We're neighbors,” he went on, somehow especially cheerfully. “It's only my third day in the city. Well, good-bye for now.”

Sonya did not answer; the door was opened and she slipped into her room. She felt ashamed for some reason, and seemed to have grown timid . . .

On the way to see Porfiry, Razumikhin was in an especially excited state.

“This is nice, brother,” he repeated several times. “I'm glad, I'm so glad!”

“What are you so glad about?” Raskolnikov thought to himself.

“I didn't even know you also pawned things with the old woman. And . .. and...was it long ago? I mean, did you go to her long ago?”

(“What a naive fool!”)

“When was it? ...” Raskolnikov paused, recollecting. “I went there, I think, about three days before her death. However, I'm not going to redeem the things now,” he picked up, with a sort of hasty and special concern about the things, “I'm down to my last silver rouble again...thanks to that cursed delirium yesterday! ... ”

He mentioned the delirium with special significance.

“Ah, yes, yes, yes,” Razumikhin hastily yessed him, who knows about what. “That's why you were struck...partly...that time...and, you know, you also kept saying something about rings and chains in your delirium! ... Ah, yes, yes...It's clear, it's all clear now.”

(“So! The idea really spread around among them! Here's a man who would go to the cross for me, yet he's so glad it's become clear why I talked about rings in my delirium! It really got settled in them all! . . .”)

“And will we find him in?” he asked aloud.

“We will, we will,” Razumikhin hurried. “He's a nice fellow, brother, you'll see! He's a bit awkward—not to say he's not a man of the world, but I mean he's awkward in another sense. He's an intelligent type, intelligent, not stupid at all, only he has some peculiar way of thinking...Mistrustful, a skeptic, a cynic...he likes hoodwinking people, or not hoodwinking them but pulling their leg...Well, and then it's the old material method...But he knows his job, he really does...Last year he ran down a case involving a murder where almost all the traces were lost! He wants very, very, very much to make your acquaintance!”