They could analyse that box of chocolates. They would find no poison in them. There was only poison in one, the one that he had picked out as a fine fat fellow and which she had crunched greedily between her strong white teeth.
That same morning Stepan woke up from his deep stupor in the mean lodging of Ivan the Cuckoo.
“Where am I?” was his first question, as he opened his heavy eyelids.
Ivan bent over him, till his bearded face was close to that of the dazed man.
“You are with your old friend and comrade. Last night I took the liberty of playing a little trick upon you. You will forgive me when I tell you the object of that trick was to ensnare our old enemy, Zouroff.”
Stepan’s rather expressionless countenance showed considerable animation. He tried to speak, but the sounds would not issue from the paralysed organs. He had recourse to his usual signs, which read as follows:
“What has happened at the Villa Quéro? I was not there at the meeting last night. You drugged me to keep me away. Who took my place?”
“A friend of mine who resembles you very closely,” replied the late outlaw, who was not greatly given to imparting confidences. “I expect he got some important information, my good Stepan. He can hear perfectly, and he understands both French and Russian.”
Stepan rubbed his hands gleefully before he replied. “Ah, I would be glad to hear that Zouroff was trapped; but I should be very grieved if they caught poor Madame Quéro, she was always so kind and considerate. Many a night at those meetings I was kept up very late. She would always come to me the next morning with her bright smile, and give me a handsome pour-boire.”