But there was no need for Grail to say more. There came to their ears a swish of silken skirts on the stairway, and Mrs. Schilder, in an elaborate dinner gown, but pale and agitated, burst in upon them.
She paid no heed to any of the others, but swiftly singling out her brother, thrust a telegram toward him.
He gave one glance at it, then, crumpling it in his hand, dropped it to the floor.
“What does it mean, Ivan?” the woman cried, clinging to him hysterically. “What does it mean?”
He put her away from him, nodding over his shoulder to Schilder to take her.
“Believe me, gentlemen”—he swept the group with a glance—“my sister had no idea of my full intentions. She thought it only ordinary secret-service work, and was chiefly concerned with fear that her husband would find out what she was doing. I deceived her as to my object. Russia has no use for failures! I know what my duty is!”
And, before any one could intervene, he moved briskly out of the attic and down the stairs.
“Quick!” cried Colonel Vedant. “The man will escape!”
Grail raised a restraining hand. “I don’t think he cares to get away,” he said quietly.
The look in the adjutant’s face held them all spellbound. Mrs. Schilder clung to her husband, her face as white as chalk. Pepernik, the conspirator, stood silent and nonplussed, making no effort to leave the room. Every eye was upon him when suddenly, from below, in one of the larger apartments, came the muffled report of a revolver.