"Light a match. Have you any?" said the baroness.
"I have, and wax matches, too." The count took out a match and lit it, and the underground stream was lit by a faint ruddy glow. The channel, covered by a semi-circular arch, was just wide enough for one boat to pass through, with oars out. The black water flowed silently by in a sluggish, Stygian stream. Bats, startled by the light, fluttered in their faces, and then disappeared in the darkness.
As the boat glided on, the match burned out in Count Kallash's fingers. He threw it into the water, and opened his matchbox to take another.
At the same moment he felt a sharp blow on the head, followed by a second, and he sank senseless in the bottom of the boat.
"Where is the money?" cried Bodlevski, who had struck him with the handle of the oar. "Get his coat open!" and the baroness deftly drew the thick packet from the breast pocket of his coat. "Here it is! I have it!" she replied quickly.
"Now, overboard with him! Keep the body steady!" A dull splash, and then silence. "To-night we shall sleep secure!"
They counted without their host. Princess Anna had also her scheme of vengeance, and had worked it out, without a word to her brother. When Natasha and Bodlevski entered their apartment, they found the police in possession, and a few minutes later both were under arrest. Abundant evidence of fraud and forgery was found in their dwelling, and the vast Siberian solitudes avenged the death of their last victim.
JÖRGEN WILHELM BERGSÖE
THE AMPUTATED ARMS
It happened when I was about eighteen or nineteen years old (began Dr. Simsen). I was studying at the University, and being coached in anatomy by my old friend Sölling. He was an amusing fellow, this Sölling. Full of jokes and whimsical ideas, and equally merry, whether he was working at the dissecting table or brewing a punch for a jovial crowd.