"There are a number of fires."
"I am not reading about them." He looked curiously at Zametoff, and a malicious smile distorted his lips. "No, fires are not in my line," he added, winking at Zametoff. "Now, I should like to know, sweet youth, what it signifies to you what I read?"
"Nothing at all. I only asked. Perhaps I—"
"Listen. You are a cultivated man—a literary man, are you not?"
"I was in the sixth class at college," Zametoff answered, with a certain amount of dignity.
"The sixth! Oh, my fine fellow! With rings and a chain—a rich man! You are a dear boy," and Raskolnikoff gave a short, nervous laugh, right in the face of Zametoff. The latter was very much taken aback, and, if not offended, seemed a good deal surprised.
"How strange you are!" said Zametoff seriously. "You have the fever still on you; you are raving!"
"Am I, my fine fellow—am I strange? Yes, but I am very interesting to you, am I not?"
"Interesting?"
"Yes. You ask me what I am reading, what I am looking for; then I am looking through a number of papers. Suspicious, isn't it? Well, I will explain to you, or rather confess—no, not that exactly. I will give testimony, and you shall take it down—that's it. So then, I swear that I was reading, and came here on purpose"—Raskolnikoff blinked his eyes and paused—"to read an account of the murder of the old woman." He finished almost in a whisper, eagerly watching Zametoff's face. The latter returned his glances without flinching. And it appeared strange to Zametoff that a full minute seemed to pass as they kept fixedly staring at each other in this manner.