"Not at all! Not at all!" cried Elia Petrovitch, in reply. Raskolnikoff took up his hat and made for the door, but he never reached it. When he came to himself he found he was sitting on a chair, supported on the right by some unknown man, while to his left stood another, holding some yellow water in a yellow glass. Nicodemus Thomich, standing before him, was looking at him fixedly. Raskolnikoff rose. "What is it? Are you ill?" asked the officer sharply. "He could hardly hold the pen to sign his name," the clerk explained, at the same time going back to his books. "Have you been ill very long?" cried Elia Petrovitch from his table; he had run to see the swoon and returned to his place. "Since yesterday," murmured Raskolnikoff in reply. "You went out yesterday?" "I did." "Ill?" "Ill!" "At what time?" "Eight o'clock in the evening." "Where did you go, allow me to ask?" "In the streets." "Concise and clear." Raskolnikoff had replied sharply, in a broken voice, his face as pale as a handkerchief, and with his black swollen eyes averted from Elia Petrovitch's scrutinizing glance. "He can hardly stand on his legs. Do you want to ask anything more?" said Nicodemus Thomich. "Nothing," replied Elia Petrovitch. Nicodemus Thomich evidently wished to say more, but, turning to the clerk, who in turn glanced expressively at him, the latter became silent, all suddenly stopped speaking. It was strange. Raskolnikoff went out. As he descended the stairs he could hear an animated discussion had broken out, and above all, the interrogative voice of Nicodemus Thomich. In the street he came to himself. "Search, search! they are going to search!" he cried. "The scoundrels, they suspect me!" The old dread seized him again, from head to foot. Here was the room. All was quiet, and no one had, apparently, disturbed it--not even Nastasia. But, heavens! how could he have left all those things where they were? He rushed to the corner, pushed his hands behind the paper, took out the things, and thrust them in his pockets. There were eight articles in all: two little boxes with earrings or something of that description, then four little morocco cases; a chain wrapped up in paper, and something else done up in a common piece of newspaper--possibly a decoration. Raskolnikoff distributed these, together with the purse, about his person, in order to make them less noticeable, and quitted the room again. All the time he had left the door wide open. He went away hurriedly, fearing pursuit. Perhaps in a few minutes orders would be issued to hunt him down, so he must hide all traces of his theft at once; and he would do so while he had strength and reason left him. But where should he go?