Raskolnikov ran after the stranger, and at once caught sight of him walking along the other side of the street with the same even, deliberate step with his eyes fixed on the ground, as though in meditation. He soon overtook him, but for some time walked behind him. At last, moving on to a level with him, he looked at his face. The man noticed him at once, looked at him quickly, but dropped his eyes again; and so they walked for a minute side by side without uttering a word.
“You were inquiring for me... of the porter?” Raskolnikov said at last, but in a curiously quiet voice.
The man made no answer; he didn’t even look at him. Again they were both silent.
“Why do you... come and ask for me... and say nothing.... What’s the meaning of it?”
Raskolnikov’s voice broke and he seemed unable to articulate the words clearly.
The man raised his eyes this time and turned a gloomy sinister look at Raskolnikov.
“Murderer!” he said suddenly in a quiet but clear and distinct voice.
Raskolnikov went on walking beside him. His legs felt suddenly weak, a cold shiver ran down his spine, and his heart seemed to stand still for a moment, then suddenly began throbbing as though it were set free. So they walked for about a hundred paces, side by side in silence.
The man did not look at him.
“What do you mean... what is.... Who is a murderer?” muttered Raskolnikov hardly audibly.