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He drew a deep breath--but his dream seemed strangely to persist:

his door was flung open and a man whom he had never seen stood in

the doorway watching him intently.

Raskolnikov had hardly opened his eyes and he instantly closed

them again. He lay on his back without stirring.

"Is it still a dream?" he wondered and again raised his eyelids

hardly perceptibly; the stranger was standing in the same place,

still watching him.

He stepped cautiously into the room, carefully closing the door

after him, went up to the table, paused a moment, still keeping

his eyes on Raskolnikov, and noiselessly seated himself on the

chair by the sofa; he put his hat on the floor beside him and

leaned his hands on his cane and his chin on his hands. It was

evident that he was prepared to wait indefinitely. As far as

Raskolnikov could make out from his stolen glances, he was a man

no longer young, stout, with a full, fair, almost whitish beard.