‘Why not something which I ought to see, my dear Pasha?’ I asked, holding the paper behind my back and facing him.
‘You forget the position I hold, Lord Wheatley. You have no such position.’
I did not argue that. I walked to the window, to get the best of the light. Mouraki followed me closely.
‘I’ll read it to you,’ said I. ‘There isn’t much of it.’
I held it to the light. The Pasha was close by my shoulder, his pale face leaning forward towards the paper. Straining my eyes on the blurred characters I read; and I read aloud, according to my promise, hearing Mouraki’s breathing which accompanied my words.
‘My lord, take care. He is free. Mouraki has set—’
That was all: a blot followed the last word. At that word the pen must have fallen from her fingers as her husband’s dagger stole her life. We had read her last words. The writing of that line saw the moment of her death. Did it also supply the cause? If so, not the old grudge, but rage at a fresh betrayal of a fresh villainy had impelled Constantine’s arm to his foul stroke. He had caught her in the act of writing it, taken his revenge, and secured his safety.
After I had read, there was silence. The Pasha’s face was still by my shoulder. I gazed, as if fascinated, on the fatal unfinished note. At last I turned and looked him in the face. His eyes met mine in unmoved steely composure.