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bered that he had not locked the little gate into the garden
that evening. He was the most punctual and precise of men,
a man who adhered to an unchangeable routine, and hab-
its that lasted for years. Limping and writhing with pain he
went down the steps and towards the garden. Yes, the gate
stood wide open. Mechanically he stepped into the garden.
Perhaps he fancied something, perhaps caught some sound,
and, glancing to the left he saw his master’s window open.
No one was looking out of it then.
‘What’s it open for? It’s not summer now,’ thought Grig-
ory, and suddenly, at that very instant he caught a glimpse
of something extraordinary before him in the garden. Forty
paces in front of him a man seemed to be running in the
dark, a sort of shadow was moving very fast.
‘Good Lord!’ cried Grigory beside himself, and forgetting
the pain in his back, he hurried to intercept the running
figure. He took a short cut, evidently he knew the garden
better; the flying figure went towards the bath-house, ran
behind it and rushed to the garden fence. Grigory followed,
not losing sight of him, and ran, forgetting everything. He
reached the fence at the very moment the man was climbing
over it. Grigory cried out, beside himself, pounced on him,
and clutched his leg in his two hands.
Yes, his foreboding had not deceived him. He recognised
him; it was he, the ‘monster,’ the ‘parricide.’
‘Parricide! the old man shouted so that the whole neigh-
bourhood could hear, but he had not time to shout more, he
fell at once, as though struck by lightning.
Mitya jumped back into the garden and bent over the