Olga thought the moment had arrived for putting things in the proper
light. She turned to me with a significant glance, and grasped my hand.
"Ah! It is the man who loved you!" she exclaimed. "And this--this is what
you dreaded!"
"What! What!" shouted Vassili, clutching her arm and pushing her roughly
aside. Then he turned upon me and seized me by the shoulder. "You--you
knew of this? You dreaded this?"
I stood trembling, struck dumb with terror. I could hear the futile and
bewildered explanations of Olga:
"Why, surely," she was saying with an insensate smile, "it is a thing
that might happen to anybody. It is not her fault if people love her to
distraction."
But Vassili was crushing my wrist. "My brother--he loved you?" he gasped.
"_Your brother?_ Your brother--little Peter?" I stammered.
"Yes, yes! Peter," shouted Vassili. "My brother! What have you to do
with his death?"
"Nothing, nothing." I groaned. "I swear it--nothing!"
And Olga, realizing at last that she stood in the presence of a genuine
tragedy and not of the jest we had plotted, darted forward and caught
his arm.
"Vassili, you are mistaken. She knows nothing about it; nothing
whatever. We had planned a joke to play on you, and we thought--" She
pursued her agitated and incoherent explanations.
Vassili looked from one to the other of us, scanning our faces, hardly
hearing what Olga was saying. Suddenly he seemed to understand, and
loosening his hold on my arm he fell upon the couch and buried his face
in his hands.
The telegram had dropped on the carpet. Olga picked it up and read it;
then she handed it to me:
_Peter hanged himself last night. Come at once._