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"Where we are at work. 'Why have you washed away the blood?' says

he. 'There has been a murder here,' says he, 'and I've come to

take it.' And he began ringing at the bell, all but broke it.

'Come to the police station,' says he. 'I'll tell you everything

there.' He wouldn't leave us."

The porter looked at Raskolnikov, frowning and perplexed.

"Who are you?" he shouted as impressively as he could.

"I am Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov, formerly a student, I live

in Shil's house, not far from here, flat Number 14, ask the

porter, he knows me." Raskolnikov said all this in a lazy, dreamy

voice, not turning round, but looking intently into the darkening

street.

"Why have you been to the flat?"

"To look at it."

"What is there to look at?"

"Take him straight to the police station," the man in the long

coat jerked in abruptly.

Raskolnikov looked intently at him over his shoulder and said in

the same slow, lazy tones:

"Come along."