“Why! can't you see? We will say that he died for your sake!” cried Olga, “that he killed himself on your account. We will have a telegram sent to us by some one in Russia. We will get them to telegraph to you: 'I die for your sake. Am killing myself. Farewell!'”
“But who is to sign it?”
“Oh, somebody or other,” said Olga vaguely. “Or we could have it signed with an imaginary name, if you prefer it. That would enable us to dispense with the corpse.”
“I most certainly prefer that,” I remarked. “But, frankly, I can't see—”
“What can't you see? Don't you see the effect upon Vassili of the news that a man has killed himself for your sake? Don't you see the new irresistible attraction which you will then exercise over him? Surely you know what strange subtle charm emanates from the 'fatal woman'—the woman whose lethal beauty—”
“Very well, very well,” I said, slightly encouraged. “Let us have the telegram written and sent to me.”
We spent the rest of the afternoon composing it.
Three days later Vassili entered the drawing-room where Olga and I were having tea; he held a telegram in his hand; his face was of a ghastly pallor.
“He's got it,” whispered Olga hysterically, pinching my arm.