it was late, that he was tired, and that he was on the point of crying.
Mitrofan stopped in front of the many storied house and looked at it with a sense of unpleasant perplexity.
"What a repulsive house! Oh, yes, it is the same house."
He walked away from the house quickly as though from a bomb, then he paused and reflected.
"The best thing for me to do is to write to her—to consider the matter calmly and write to her. Of course, I will not mention my name. Simply: that 'the man whom you mistook for a spy'—Point by point I will analyse it. She'll be a fool if she will not believe me."
After a time, Mitrofan touched the cold knob several times, opened the heavy door, and entered with a stern look. The porter appeared in the doorway of the little room under the staircase, and his face bespoke his willingness to be of service.
"Listen, friend, a student girl passed here a little while ago—what is the number of her room?"
"What do you want to know it for?"
Mitrofan Krilov stared at him abruptly through his spectacles, in silence, and the porter understood: he shook his head strangely and extended his hand to him.
"Come in to my room," called the porter.
