“Quickly I seized my chance; and with one strong, straight stroke drove the hat-pin into her heart, putting out my left hand to catch and steady her body. And I held her until her head fell back and I saw her eyes glazing. Thus died Hélène—the Vampire!”
No one spoke. In the terrible silence the ticking of the small clock sounded clear and distinct. De Smirnoff roused himself.
“My tale is soon finished. I carried the body to the safe and fastened the door; but first I put the twenty thousand dollar gold certificates, wrapped in her handkerchief, by her side. She had paid the price, I had no further use for the money.”
A gasp came from Hardy. “Good God! Clark must have stolen the money,” he cried, “he found the handkerchief.”
“What matter?” said de Smirnoff, indifferently. “It is blood money, ill-gotten gains! To continue; I put out the lights in the room and went into the hall, but just as I started for the door I heard someone coming downstairs, so I hid behind a suit of old armor. The man, whom I judged to be Mr. Trevor, went straight to the front door and admitted a woman. They went immediately into the room I had just left. Just as I started to go, Mr. Trevor returned into the hall and went upstairs. He came down at once, and in a few seconds I heard him talking at the telephone. This was my opportunity. I rose up hurriedly; but in my haste I caught my watch chain in some sharp part of the iron stand which supported the armor. I heard something snap, but dared not stop to investigate. I slipped out of the front door and down the front steps as noiselessly as I could,—but dropped the head of the hat-pin in opening the door.
“With a supreme effort, I took up my everyday life the next morning, attending to my duties in safe-guarding the person of the Grand Duke, and accepting the invitations I received as Henri’s guest. It has given me infinite satisfaction to see Hélène’s wicked past revealed gradually to the world she had fooled so long.
“Monsieur Tillinghast—” he turned directly to Dick—“I am glad, glad I was of service to you the other night, for you remind me of Sacha.” His voice quivered on his son’s name.
“Count—Count—what can I say,” faltered Dick.
“Say nothing. It is Kismet. In my grief for my son I have never given the loss of my lucky coin another thought; but I hated to be without my chain, a present from Sacha when a lad; so I asked Henri to send it to a jeweler’s to be mended. That—is—all—I—think—Messieurs—”
For some time his voice had grown husky from weariness and emotion; now he could hardly articulate. None of his listeners cared to break the painful pause. Suddenly, Hardy, the most callous of the four men, rose and turned on the lights. As he did so a cry escaped de Morny: