Before the detectives could obey the orders of the inspector, he had placed the revolver to his forehead.
The plated barrel flashed in the light only for an instant—then there was a loud explosion.
The officers recoiled, startled by its suddenness; for it all took place so rapidly that for the moment they apparently did not comprehend his intention.
As the pistol fell from the unhappy man’s grasp he uttered a loud moan, staggered, and then wheeled slowly round, as if on a pivot. His bloodshot eyes caught sight of Boris, and frightful convulsions of every feature proclaimed his terror. He did not utter another cry but fell forward to the floor where he quivered for a few moments in death agony.
It was an awful tableau; the last act of a terrible game that had for its stakes riches, or the grave.
Boris, with livid face, was resting his right hand against the wall, while he pressed his left to his breast as if to stay the beating of his heart. He watched the dying struggles of his wife’s murderer, seeming fascinated by the frightful spectacle.
There was an awful silence.
Amid this terrible scene Vera regained consciousness. Struggling to her feet she walked with uneven steps towards us. All at once her face assumed a look of inexpressible horror, as she gazed down upon the body of the murderer, and gradually realised the truth.
“It is he! And he tried to kill me! It all seems like some horrible dream,” she gasped, clutching my arm and uttering a low cry of horror.
“Come; Vera,” I whispered, softly, “the mystery is solved. The guilty one has received the wages of his sin.”