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He stood as though lost in thought, and a strange, humiliated,

half senseless smile strayed on his lips. He took his cap at last

and went quietly out of the room. His ideas were all tangled. He

went dreamily through the gateway.

"Here he is himself," shouted a loud voice.

He raised his head.

The porter was standing at the door of his little room and was

pointing him out to a short man who looked like an artisan,

wearing a long coat and a waistcoat, and looking at a distance

remarkably like a woman. He stooped, and his head in a greasy cap

hung forward. From his wrinkled flabby face he looked over fifty;

his little eyes were lost in fat and they looked out grimly,

sternly and discontentedly.

"What is it?" Raskolnikov asked, going up to the porter.

The man stole a look at him from under his brows and he looked at

him attentively, deliberately; then he turned slowly and went out

of the gate into the street without saying a word.

"What is it?" cried Raskolnikov.