corner, staring wildly at Nikolay and moved towards him, but stopped short, looked from Nikolay to Raskolnikov and then again at Nikolay, and seeming unable to restrain himself darted at the latter.
“You’re in too great a hurry,” he shouted at him, almost angrily. “I didn’t ask you what came over you. … Speak, did you kill them?”
“I am the murderer. … I want to give evidence,” Nikolay pronounced.
“Ach! What did you kill them with?”
“An axe. I had it ready.”
“Ach, he is in a hurry! Alone?”
Nikolay did not understand the question.
“Did you do it alone?”
“Yes, alone. And Mitka is not guilty and had no share in it.”
“Don’t be in a hurry about Mitka! A-ach! How was it you ran downstairs like that at the time? The porters met you both!”
“It was to put them off the scent … I ran after Mitka,” Nikolay replied hurriedly, as though he had prepared the answer.
“I knew it!” cried Porfiry, with vexation. “It’s not his own tale he is telling,” he muttered as though to himself, and suddenly his eyes rested on Raskolnikov again.
He was apparently so taken up with Nikolay that for a moment he had forgotten Raskolnikov. He was a little taken aback.
“My dear Rodion Romanovitch, excuse me!” he flew up to him, “this won’t do; I’m afraid you must go … it’s no good your staying … I will … you see, what a surprise! … Goodbye!”