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"Maybe he's not at home," said a man's voice.

"Ha! that's the porter's voice.... What does he want?"

He jumped up and sat on the sofa. The beating of his heart was a

positive pain.

"Then who can have latched the door?" retorted Nastasya. "He's

taken to bolting himself in! As if he were worth stealing! Open,

you stupid, wake up!"

"What do they want? Why the porter? All's discovered. Resist or

open? Come what may!..."

He half rose, stooped forward and unlatched the door.

His room was so small that he could undo the latch without

leaving the bed. Yes; the porter and Nastasya were standing

there.

Nastasya stared at him in a strange way. He glanced with a

defiant and desperate air at the porter, who without a word held

out a grey folded paper sealed with bottle-wax.

"A notice from the office," he announced, as he gave him the

paper.

"From what office?"

"A summons to the police office, of course. You know which

office."

"To the police?... What for?..."

"How can I tell? You're sent for, so you go."