Instead of replying, Raskolnikoff walked to the outer door and, standing outside, began to pull at the bell. Yes, that was the bell, with its harsh sound. He pulled again and again three times, and remained there listening and thinking.
"What is it you want?" again cried the workman as he went out to
Raskolnikoff.
"I wish to hire some rooms. I came to look at these."
"People don't take lodgings in the night. Why don't you apply to the porter?"
"The floor has been washed. Are you going to paint it?" remarked
Raskolnikoff. "Where is the blood?"
"What blood?"
"The old woman's and her sister's. There was quite a pool."
"Who are you?" cried the workman uneasily.
"I am Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikoff, ex-student. I live at the house Schilla, in a lane not far from here, No. 14. Ask the porter there—he knows me," Raskolnikoff replied indifferently, without turning to his questioner.
"What were you doing in those rooms?"