“I want you to tell everything you know about Lady Rawson—you and this gentleman, who, I think, were on terms of intimate friendship with the unfortunate lady.”
It was no chance shot. Hours ago he had searched Lady Rawson’s rooms, and in her boudoir, hidden in the secret drawer of a costly antique writing-table, had found a big packet of letters, some of quite recent date, written in Russian. They were all signed merely with the initial “B,” and those which he had got translated at once gave him a fair inkling of the relations between the writer and the dead woman. The translation of the others would be in his hands to-morrow morning.
If the Russian heard and understood the words he made no sign. He sat huddled in the chair where Cacciola had placed him, with one hand over his eyes. He might have been asleep for any movement that he made.
“It is but very little I can tell,” said Cacciola. “It is true that she came here from time to time—not to see me, to see her cousin, my dear pupil Boris Melikoff here, who has been in the North since three days, and returned to-night only, to hear of this deed of horror. It has overwhelmed him, as you see. He is utterly exhausted. One moment——”
Rising, he opened a corner cupboard, brought out a decanter half filled with wine, and some glasses, placed them on a table at Snell’s elbow, and filled one glass.
“This may revive him, and I think we all need it. I pray you help yourself and your friend, signor.
“It is good wine, I give you my word,” he added with a courteous gesture.
Crossing to Melikoff, he touched him, speaking caressingly as one would speak to a sick child.