“Ah!” he cried, sorrowfully, passing his hand quickly across his forehead, “the remembrance of that terrible night—the white face of my poor dead wife constantly haunts me. But the scoundrel who killed her shall suffer his well-merited punishment,” he added, as he paced the room angrily, muttering some imprecations in Russian.
“Boris dear, calm yourself,” said Vera, persuasively, clutching him by the arm. “Tell Frank everything; he has a right to know.”
“Yes, he has,” replied her brother, turning suddenly towards me. “From the first I knew by whose hand she died, but was unable to act. You will understand, when I say that the villain was a member of our Circle, and that it was believed my wife was removed because she had accidentally discovered that an attempt was to be made at the Winter Palace. Such, however, was the report to the Executive, and the murder was looked upon as a commendable precaution.”
“Did not the Circle know it was your wife?”
“No, I had kept my marriage a secret. The murderer was ignorant of our relationship, otherwise he would not have dared to commit the crime and report it to the Executive.”
“Then you are absolutely certain as to his identity?” I said, breathlessly.
“Yes. At first I could not discover the motive, but since the confession of the servant it is plain he wished to obtain possession of the money, and placed the fatal emblem upon her in order to deceive us and secure our aid in concealing his guilt.”
“You have given the police his name!” exclaimed Vera, anxiously, “quick! tell us who he is.”
“What!” I ejaculated, in surprise, “are you, too, in ignorance of the real culprit?”
“Quite; Boris has refused to disclose his identity,” she said, quietly, in a tone of annoyance.