She nodded her head, and, holding the pin nearer the shaded lamp, showed that for about an inch from the point it was discoloured by some black substance.
“Why do you carry about such a dangerous weapon?”
“Cannot you guess?” she asked hoarsely, at the same time unbuttoning the breast of her dress, and drawing forth a letter, which she handed me. Then she sank into a chair, and covering her face with her small white hands, burst into tears.
The letter was in Russian. It acknowledged receipt of the facts regarding Feodor Matvyèich, and stated that the death sentence had been passed upon him. Appended was the warrant of the Moscow Circle, ordering her to kill him.
In a moment the object of her secret mission was plain.
“And you love him, Sophie?” I said in a low tone.
“Yes,” she sobbed. “I came here to discover how he intended to act on his return to Moscow. I have betrayed him, and the Circle have passed sentence. In spite of myself, I have grown to love him, and must save him. But how can I? To warn him would be to place the whole Circle in danger, besides bringing the vengeance of the Party upon myself.”
Jumping up, she paced the room excitedly, while I stood watching her sorrowfully, unable to give advice or render assistance.
As I stood, meditative and silent, a servant entered with a card. She glanced at it, drew a long breath, and exclaimed, “Captain Matvyèich! Show him up!”
Closing the little morocco case with a snap, she put it quickly into the pocket of her dress, and replaced the letter in her breast. Scarcely had she rebuttoned her bodice, when Feodor entered, and she went forward to meet him with a smile and an expression of glad welcome. He grasped her hand—the hand that was ordered to deal the death-blow!