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"You are a madman," said Zametov, and for some reason he too

spoke in a whisper, and moved away from Raskolnikov, whose eyes

were glittering. He had turned fearfully pale and his upper lip

was twitching and quivering. He bent down as close as possible to

Zametov, and his lips began to move without uttering a word. This

lasted for half a minute; he knew what he was doing, but could

not restrain himself. The terrible word trembled on his lips,

like the latch on that door; in another moment it will break out,

in another moment he will let it go, he will speak out.

"And what if it was I who murdered the old woman and Lizaveta?"

he said suddenly and--realised what he had done.

Zametov looked wildly at him and turned white as the tablecloth.

His face wore a contorted smile.

"But is it possible?" he brought out faintly. Raskolnikov looked

wrathfully at him.

"Own up that you believed it, yes, you did?"

"Not a bit of it, I believe it less than ever now," Zametov cried

hastily.