“You mean to murder me?” Leshkin gave him a quick look. “If you shoot you will rouse the hotel. The police here know already the purpose for which I have come — you will be arrested immediately.”
De Richleau smiled. “Yes, I have already thought of that.” He moved softly to the big french windows and opened them wide. “It is a lovely night, is it not?” he murmured. “These rooms in summer must be quite charming, the view is superb.”
Leshkin shivered slightly as the March air penetrated the warm room. “What do you mean to do?” he asked.
“You are not interested in the sleeping city?” De Richleau moved away from the window. “But of course one would not expect that from you, who seek to destroy all the beauty of life — you have your eyes so much on the gutters that you have forgotten the existence of the stars.”
“What do you mean to do?” repeated Leshkin thickly. There was something terrifying about this quiet, sinister man with his slow measured movements.
“I will tell you.” De Richleau put down his cigar again and picked up a toothglass from the washstand. He took the small bottle from his pocket, uncorked it carefully, and poured the contents into the glass.
“Ha! you mean to poison me,” Leshkin exclaimed. “I will not drink — I refuse.”
The Duke shook his head. “You wrong me, my dear Leshkin — that is not my idea. It seems that in this question of extradition it is necessary to prove identity. You are the only person who can identify Mr. Simon Aron, Mr. Rex Van Ryn, and myself as the men concerned in the shooting that night at Romanovsk.” He carefully picked up the tumbler in his left hand. “If you were to become blind, Leshkin, you could not identify us, could you?”
“What are you going to do?” Fear had come into the Kommissar’s eyes.
De Richleau held up the glass once more. “This,” he said, softly, “is vitriol. I purpose to throw it in your face. You will be blinded beyond any hope of recovery. After that you may go back to Russia if you will.”