‘There’s nobody behind the curtain,’ said he, with a slight sigh which seemed to express relief. ‘Do you see any one anywhere?’
Then I pulled myself together, and looked round. The chairs near me were empty, the couch had no occupant. But away in the corner of the room, in the shadow of a projecting angle of wall, I saw a figure seated in front of a table. On the table were writing-materials. The figure was a woman’s. Her arms were spread on the table, and her head lay between them. I raised my hand and pointed to her. Mouraki’s eyes obeyed my direction but came quickly back to me in question, and he arched his brows.
I stepped across the room towards where the woman sat. I heard the Pasha following with hesitating tread, and I waited till he overtook me. Then I called her name softly; yet I knew that it was no use to call her name; it was only the protest my horror made. She would hear her name no more. Again I pointed with my right hand, catching Mouraki’s arm with my left at the same moment.
‘There,’ I said, ‘there—between the shoulders! A knife!’
I felt his arm tremble. I must do him justice. I am convinced that he did not foresee or anticipate this among the results of the letting loose of Constantine Stefanopoulos. I heard him clear his throat, I saw him lick his lips; his lids settled low over his cunning eyes. I turned from him to the motionless figure in the chair.
She was dead, had been dead some little while, and must have died instantly on that foul stroke. Why had the brute dealt it? Was it mere revenge and cruelty, persistently nursed wrath at her betrayal of him on St Tryphon’s day? Or had some new cause evoked passion from him?
‘Let us lay her here on the sofa,’ I said to Mouraki; ‘and you must send some one to look after her.’
He seemed reluctant to help me. I leant forward alone, and putting my arm round her, raised her from the table, and set her upright in the chair. I rejoiced to find no trace of pain or horror on her face. As I looked at her I gave a sudden short sob. I was unstrung; the thing was so wantonly cruel and horrible.
‘He has made good use of his liberty,’ I said in a low fierce tone, turning on Mouraki in a sudden burst of anger against the hand that had set the villain free. But the Pasha’s composure wrapped him like a cloak again. He knew what I meant and read the implied taunt in my words, but he answered calmly:
‘We have no proof yet that it was her husband who killed her.’