“Killed him?” I asked.
“Of course. He was an utter stranger in Olekminsk. Presently we shall discover who and what he is. Here are your papers,” he added, handing back the precious documents to me. “For the present the man’s body lies outside. Afterwards you shall see if you recognise him. From his passport his name would appear to be Gabrillo Passhin. Do you know anyone of that name?”
“Nobody,” I replied, my brain awhirl with the crowded events of the past half-hour.
I suppose it was another half-hour before the doctor, a grey-bearded, prematurely-aged man, finished bandaging my wound and strapping my left arm across my chest. Then, assisted by my host, I rose and went forth, led by men with lanterns, to where, in the snow, as he had fallen beneath the sentry’s bullet, lay the would-be assassin.
They held their lanterns against the white, dead lace, but I did not recognise him. He seemed to be about thirty-five, with thin, irregular features and shaven chin. He was respectably dressed, while his hands were soft, betraying no evidence of manual labour. The features were perfectly calm, for death had been instantaneous, the bullet striking at the back of the skull.
Near where he lay a small pool of blood showed dark against the snow.
While we were examining the body, Petrakoff, whom I had sent for from the post-house, arrived in hot haste, and became filled with alarm when he saw my neck and arm enveloped in bandages.
In a few words I told him what had occurred, and then advancing, he bent and looked upon my assailant’s face. He remained bent there for quite a couple of minutes. Then, straightening himself, he asked:
“Does his passport give his name as Ivan Müller—or Gabrillo Passhin?”
“You know him!” I gasped. “Who is he?”