And this thought roused him still more; he became quite positive that if it should happen he would go straight to the police in this same droshky and confess that he had murdered Poluektov. No, he would not any longer be tortured, and live in dirt and turmoil while others enjoy in peace and comfort the money for which he sinned so deeply. The mere idea of it drove him nearly crazy. When the droshky drew up at his door, he darted out and tugged at the bell; his fist clenched and his teeth locked, he waited impatiently for the door to open. Tatiana appeared on the threshold.
"My, what a ring you gave! What's the matter? What's wrong?" she cried, frightened at the sight of him.
Without a word he pushed her aside, went quickly to his room, and assured himself in one glance, that his fears were unnecessary. The money lay behind the upper window-boxing, and he had stuck on a little scrap of down, in such a way that it must be removed if any one tried to get at the packet. He saw the white fleck at once against the brown background.
"Aren't you well?" asked his landlady, appearing at the door of his room.
"I'm all right; I beg your pardon, I pushed you."
"That's nothing; but see here, how much is the droshky?"
"I don't know, ask him please, and pay him."
She hurried away, and Ilya in a moment sprang on a chair, snatched away the packet of money, knew by the feel that it had not been tampered with, and dropped it in his pocket with a sigh of relief. He was ashamed now of his anxiety, and the precaution of the scrap of down seemed foolish and ridiculous.
"Witchcraft!" he thought, and laughed to himself. Tatiana Vlassyevna appeared again.
"I gave him twenty kopecks—but what's the matter? were you faint?"