She had a slight appreciative movement of the head, like an expert in such enterprises, very interested, capable of taking every point professionally. Razumov remembered something he had heard.
“I turned into a narrow side street, you understand,” he went on negligently, and paused as if it were not worth talking about. Then he remembered another detail and dropped it before her, like a disdainful dole to her curiosity.
“I felt inclined to lie down and go to sleep there.”
She clicked her tongue at that symptom, very struck indeed. Then—
“But the notebook! The amazing notebook, man. You don’t mean to say you had put it in your pocket beforehand!” she cried.
Razumov gave a start. It might have been a sign of impatience.
“I went home. Straight home to my rooms,” he said distinctly.
“The coolness of the man! You dared?”
“Why not? I assure you I was perfectly calm. Ha! Calmer than I am now perhaps.”
“I like you much better as you are now than when you indulge that bitter vein of yours, Razumov. And nobody in the house saw you return—eh? That might have appeared queer.”