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When Raskolnikov got home, his hair was soaked with sweat and he

was breathing heavily. He went rapidly up the stairs, walked into

his unlocked room and at once fastened the latch. Then in

senseless terror he rushed to the corner, to that hole under the

paper where he had put the things; put his hand in, and for some

minutes felt carefully in the hole, in every crack and fold of

the paper. Finding nothing, he got up and drew a deep breath. As

he was reaching the steps of Bakaleyev's, he suddenly fancied

that something, a chain, a stud or even a bit of paper in which

they had been wrapped with the old woman's handwriting on it,

might somehow have slipped out and been lost in some crack, and

then might suddenly turn up as unexpected, conclusive evidence

against him.