He was in agonies, trembling at the necessity of action and his own indecision. At last he took up the candle and again approached the door with the revolver held up in readiness; he put his left hand, in which he held the candle, on the doorhandle. But he managed awkwardly: the handle clanked, there was a rattle and a creak. “He will fire straightway,” flashed through Pyotr Stepanovitch’s mind. With his foot he flung the door open violently, raised the candle, and held out the revolver; but no shot nor cry came from within.⁠ ⁠… There was no one in the room.

He started. The room led nowhere. There was no exit, no means of escape from it. He lifted the candle higher and looked about him more attentively: there was certainly no one. He called Kirillov’s name in a low voice, then again louder; no one answered.

“Can he have got out by the window?” The casement in one window was, in fact, open. “Absurd! He couldn’t have got away through the casement.” Pyotr Stepanovitch crossed the room and went up to the window. “He couldn’t possibly.” All at once he turned round quickly and was aghast at something extraordinary.