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Instead of answering Raskolnikov went into the passage and pulled

the bell. The same bell, the same cracked note. He rang it a

second and a third time; he listened and remembered. The hideous

and agonisingly fearful sensation he had felt then began to come

back more and more vividly. He shuddered at every ring and it

gave him more and more satisfaction.

"Well, what do you want? Who are you?" the workman shouted, going

out to him. Raskolnikov went inside again.

"I want to take a flat," he said. "I am looking round."

"It's not the time to look at rooms at night! and you ought to

come up with the porter."

"The floors have been washed, will they be painted?" Raskolnikov

went on. "Is there no blood?"

"What blood?"

"Why, the old woman and her sister were murdered here. There was

a perfect pool there."

"But who are you?" the workman cried, uneasy.

"Who am I?"

"Yes."

"You want to know? Come to the police station, I'll tell you."

The workmen looked at him in amazement.