“Look—look!” he shouted pointing to de Smirnoff.
With a bound Dick was by the Russian’s side, his hand on his heart. De Smirnoff’s head was thrown back, his body, unnoticed in the dimly lighted room, had twisted slightly, and his eyes were fixed in a dreadful stare. There was no need for Dick to speak. Each man in the room knew de Smirnoff was dead.
Tom leaned over and took the half-burnt cigar from the nerveless fingers.
“The poison was here,” he said.
Dick’s pitying gaze fell on the livid face.
“Better so,” he said softly.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE LIFTING OF THE CLOUD
“Durley, fill up Miss Beatrice’s champagne glass. I insist, my dear,” as Beatrice protested. “Your health needs such a tonic, and it can do you no harm. I promised your father that I would take good care of you, so you must prepare to do exactly as I say,” and Mrs. Macallister shook a warning finger at her guest.
Peggy had called for Beatrice that afternoon and carried her home in the Macallisters’ landaulet. And already their tender but unobtrusive sympathy, and the cheery atmosphere of the house had had a beneficial effect on her over-wrought nerves.
Intuitively, Mrs. Macallister knew that Beatrice was silently grieving her heart out, too proud to complain even to those dear friends, as each day added its burden to those which her sensitive woman’s soul was bearing so bravely. As her handsome dark eyes, filled with unshed tears, encountered Mrs. Macallister’s piercing ones, that astute dame, deeply touched by their wistful appeal, then and there registered a vow to do everything within her power to help her. “There’s some man in the case,” thought she, watching Beatrice covertly. “And what on earth ails Peggy? She hasn’t been herself since the night I found her in a dead faint.”