Olga grasped my wrist. "Stay! I have an idea. We will get some one who
is not on earth. Some one who is dead. It will be much simpler. I
remember there was an idea of that kind in an unsuccessful play I saw a
year or two ago. What we need is a dead man--recently dead, if possible,
and, if possible, young. If he has committed suicide, so much the
better."
"What on earth do you want with a dead man?" I asked, shuddering.
"Why! can't you see? We will say that he died for your sake!" cried
Olga, "that he killed himself on your account. We will have a telegram
sent to us by some one in Russia. We will get them to telegraph to you:
'I die for your sake. Am killing myself. Farewell!'"
"But who is to sign it?"
"Oh, somebody or other," said Olga vaguely. "Or we could have it signed
with an imaginary name, if you prefer it. That would enable us to
dispense with the corpse."
"I most certainly prefer that," I remarked. "But, frankly, I can't see--"
"What can't you see? Don't you see the effect upon Vassili of the news
that a man has killed himself for your sake? Don't you see the new
irresistible attraction which you will then exercise over him? Surely
you know what strange subtle charm emanates from the 'fatal woman'--the
woman whose lethal beauty--"
"Very well, very well," I said, slightly encouraged. "Let us have the
telegram written and sent to me."
We spent the rest of the afternoon composing it.
Three days later Vassili entered the drawing-room where Olga and I were
having tea; he held a telegram in his hand; his face was of a ghastly
pallor.
"He's got it," whispered Olga hysterically, pinching my arm.
"Mura," said Vassili; "a horrible thing has happened. Horrible!" His
white lips trembled as he uttered the incoherent words:
"Dead--he is dead--he has killed himself--"
He was unable to go on. His voice broke in a sob.