"Eight o'clock in the evening."
"Where did you go, allow me to ask?"
"In the streets."
"Concise and clear."
Raskolnikoff had replied sharply, in a broken voice, his face as pale as a handkerchief, and with his black swollen eyes averted from Elia Petrovitch's scrutinizing glance.
"He can hardly stand on his legs. Do you want to ask anything more?" said Nicodemus Thomich.
"Nothing," replied Elia Petrovitch.
Nicodemus Thomich evidently wished to say more, but, turning to the clerk, who in turn glanced expressively at him, the latter became silent, all suddenly stopped speaking. It was strange.
Raskolnikoff went out. As he descended the stairs he could hear an animated discussion had broken out, and above all, the interrogative voice of Nicodemus Thomich. In the street he came to himself.
"Search, search! they are going to search!" he cried. "The scoundrels, they suspect me!" The old dread seized him again, from head to foot.