Something. That isn’t particularly specific, but then again, Raskolnikov can’t blame him. It’s as good a confirmation as any, and more importantly, it’s safe. That’s what matters, here. Safe, cautious words; nothing suspicious.

He takes the man’s invitation to sit down, and inclines his head in greeting. Polite niceties aren’t his style, but it’s all part of the part he’s expected to play.

“What a coincidence.” He gives the stranger a sharp, pointed look. “I saw something too. Perhaps there was something in the drinks.” Or some mass hallucination, he thinks is more likely, but he doesn’t say so. “I’ve heard the experience wasn’t entirely uncommon. It’s strange, don’t you think, that the Americans —” meaning the local townspeople “— didn’t seem to have anything similar happen?”