"Well, his--his disappearance may as well be of some use. Do you not
think so?"
Seeing the look of horror which I turned upon him, he continued: "For
goodness' sake don't let us behave like romantic fools. We are not a
pair of poetic assassins in a play, are we?"
[Illustration: UNDER ARREST]
Gradually, by subtle pleading and plausible argument, he led my weak
brain to view the idea with less horror. He assured me that we had not
only the right but almost the duty to commit this enormity. According to
him, it was not a shameful and disgraceful deed. No; it was a just,
reasonable, logical thing to do.
"Of course, it is not as if we were getting rid of a man simply in order
to plunder him of his money. No, indeed. That would be vile, that would
be abominable. But, given the necessity--the irrevocableness--of his fate,
why should we not see to it that his death may at least be of some use
to some one? Not to ourselves, remember. The money you get from him
shall be used to serve a just purpose--to redress a wrong. We shall make
restitution to those I have despoiled. I will pay back what I took from
my clients to the very last farthing. And anything that is left over
shall be given in charity to the poor. What do you say to that? We shall
keep nothing for ourselves--nothing. Do you agree?"
He went on to recall that among the clients he had defrauded was a widow
with four little children; the thought of her, he said, had always
worried him. It was good to think that she would recover every penny.
The advocate in him awoke, eloquent and convincing, until he ended by
assuring me that we should be performing a meritorious deed.
Indignant at first, then uncertain, then reluctant, I was finally
persuaded. Soon I heard myself repeating after him: "It will be a
meritorious deed."
Ah, if such beings as evil spirits exist, with what laughter must they
have listened to our talk in that exquisite evening hour.
It was Prilukoff who thought out the details and settled the plan.
"You must get him to insure his life."
"How can I?" I cried feebly and tearfully. "How can one possibly suggest
such a thing?"
"Leave that to me," said Prilukoff, reverting to his Moscow manner.
Next day he showed me a letter written by himself in a disguised hand.
"Open this letter when he is present, and when he insists on seeing it,
show it to him ... reluctantly!"
"But what if he does not insist?"
"You must make him insist," said Prilukoff.
The letter was brought to me in Kamarowsky's presence, and when he saw
me turning scarlet and then pale as I opened it, he insisted on seeing
what it contained.