“Mura,” said Vassili; “a horrible thing has happened. Horrible!” His white lips trembled as he uttered the incoherent words:
“Dead—he is dead—he has killed himself—”
He was unable to go on. His voice broke in a sob.
I sprang to my feet. “Who, Vassili? Who?”
Olga thought the moment had arrived for putting things in the proper light. She turned to me with a significant glance, and grasped my hand.
“Ah! It is the man who loved you!” she exclaimed. “And this—this is what you dreaded!”
“What! What!” shouted Vassili, clutching her arm and pushing her roughly aside. Then he turned upon me and seized me by the shoulder. “You—you knew of this? You dreaded this?”
I stood trembling, struck dumb with terror. I could hear the futile and bewildered explanations of Olga:
“Why, surely,” she was saying with an insensate smile, “it is a thing that might happen to anybody. It is not her fault if people love her to distraction.”
But Vassili was crushing my wrist. “My brother—he loved you?” he gasped.