It is unnecessary to refer in detail to the events that immediately followed. That Ivan had been murdered in the most cowardly and secret manner possible was plain, but the identity of the person who had placed the poison in the glass from the opposite side of the trellis was a mystery. The police quickly apprehended the dvornik’s son and daughter, both of whom were submitted to a searching cross-examination. There was such an utter absence of motive, however, and so plain and straightforward were their answers, that the officials were quickly convinced of their innocence.
But I had my own suspicions. Later that night I took a drosky to the Vosseressenski quarter and sought the dead man’s idol, intending to break the news to her, and closely observe the manner in which she received it.
Wanda Waluiski, when I entered, was sitting alone, dressed in semi-loose drapery of white, that made her child-like figure seem only the more youthful under the light of the bright lamp. Her eyes met mine instantly as I came in, and their gaze had a fulness of significance I could not fathom. I offered her my hand.
“I never shake the hand of any one,” she observed gently, not moving her own. “It induces loss of power in psychic sensitives.”
I was looking into her weirdly delicate visage, with its large eyes whose expression was so haunting, and a certain thrill of quickened zest suddenly replaced the sensation of repugnance in my mind.
“I have come to break bad news to you,” I said gently.
“I know,” she replied. “I—I am aware that Ivan is dead.”
“Who told you?” I asked quickly, but my inquiry was not answered.
At that moment the door was flung open unceremoniously, and two police officers entered.