“The man arrested in the street was Haldin.”
And accepting Razumov’s dismayed silence as natural enough, he assured him that there was no mistake. That Government clerk was on night duty at the Secretariat. Hearing a great noise of footsteps in the hall and aware that political prisoners were brought over sometimes at night from the fortress, he opened the door of the room in which he was working, suddenly. Before the gendarme on duty could push him back and slam the door in his face, he had seen a prisoner being partly carried, partly dragged along the hall by a lot of policemen. He was being used very brutally. And the clerk had recognized Haldin perfectly. Less than half an hour afterwards General T—- arrived at the Secretariat to examine that prisoner personally.
“Aren’t you astonished?” concluded the gaunt student.
“No,” said Razumov roughly—and at once regretted his answer.
“Everybody supposed Haldin was in the provinces—with his people. Didn’t you?”
The student turned his big hollow eyes upon Razumov, who said unguardedly—
“His people are abroad.”
He could have bitten his tongue out with vexation. The student pronounced in a tone of profound meaning—
“So! You alone were aware,...” and stopped.
“They have sworn my ruin,” thought Razumov. “Have you spoken of this to anyone else?” he asked with bitter curiosity.