And now Patouchki laid his hand upon her shoulder.
"You are Adèle Lamien," he said, in his harsh, bullet-like tones, "and as such I arrest you, for the murder of Count Stevan Lallovich."
She made no gesture either of assent or dissent, she only looked at him, with all her soul in her wonderful eyes. Then she spoke slowly and with deliberation.
"I am Adèle Lallovich," she said, "I recognise no other name."
"That makes small difference," replied Patouchki. "I must trouble you, madam, to accompany me."
Again she raised her beautiful eyes to his, and spoke, this time a little wildly.
"I am Adèle Lallovich—and I killed him—my husband—with my own hand."
Then she turned, and walked with quick steps across a narrow hall, where on a peg hung her black cloak and bonnet. She set down the lamp, and with dexterous fingers put on her outside garments. When this was accomplished she took some money from her pocket—the few silver pieces Ivor had seen her counting over in her palm—and, wrapping them in a bit of paper, wrote across it.
"It is for Paulina," she said in explanation, "my little maid."
Then she turned, and motioning Patouchki to precede her, followed him down the stairs and along the passage. The door opened as noiselessly as before, and was closed with equal caution. There was a moment's whispered consultation, the slight dark figure stepped into the waiting droschky without assistance, followed by Ivor and Patouchki; the door was shut, and the vehicle moved quickly away down the deserted Nevski in the direction of the Chancellerie, whose frowning portals were watched over by Petropavlovsk's grim fortress.