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The conviction grew stronger in him that if that enigmatic man of

yesterday, that phantom sprung out of the earth, had seen

everything, they would not have let him stand and wait like that.

And would they have waited till he elected to appear at eleven?

Either the man had not yet given information, or... or simply he

knew nothing, had seen nothing (and how could he have seen

anything?) and so all that had happened to him the day before was

again a phantom exaggerated by his sick and overstrained

imagination. This conjecture had begun to grow strong the day

before, in the midst of all his alarm and despair. Thinking it

all over now and preparing for a fresh conflict, he was suddenly

aware that he was trembling--and he felt a rush of indignation at

the thought that he was trembling with fear at facing that

hateful Porfiry Petrovitch. What he dreaded above all was meeting

that man again; he hated him with an intense, unmitigated hatred

and was afraid his hatred might betray him.