At this moment there were loud shouts in the corridor, and a few seconds
later a police inspector, accompanied by two detectives and several
waiters, dashed into the room.
"Demetrius Orselska, we have a warrant for your arrest for murder!"
announced the officer, sharply, and turning to his men, added, "arrest
him?"
Like some hunted animal who is brought to bay, the scoundrel glanced
quickly around for means of escape, but finding none, turned and faced
them.
A moment's reflection had decided him.
"You--you shall not take me," he hissed. "I--I confess I am guilty of
the crimes--but--_Diable_! I will take my own life, and--and you can
take my body if it's any use--you can can do what you like with that,
you bloodhounds!"
Before the detectives could obey the orders of the inspector, he had
placed the revolver to his forehead.
The plated barrel flashed in the light only for an instant--then there
was a loud explosion.
The officers recoiled, startled by its suddenness; for it all took place
so rapidly that for the moment they apparently did not comprehend his
intention.
As the pistol fell from the unhappy man's grasp he uttered a loud moan,
staggered, and then wheeled slowly round, as if on a pivot. His
bloodshot eyes caught sight of Boris, and frightful convulsions of every
feature proclaimed his terror. He did not utter another cry but fell
forward to the floor where he quivered for a few moments in death agony.
It was an awful tableau; the last act of a terrible game that had for
its stakes riches, or the grave.
Boris, with livid face, was resting his right hand against the wall,
while he pressed his left to his breast as if to stay the beating of his
heart. He watched the dying struggles of his wife's murderer, seeming
fascinated by the frightful spectacle.
There was an awful silence.
Amid this terrible scene Vera regained consciousness. Struggling to her
feet she walked with uneven steps towards us. All at once her face
assumed a look of inexpressible horror, as she gazed down upon the body
of the murderer, and gradually realised the truth.
"It is he! And he tried to kill me! It all seems like some horrible
dream," she gasped, clutching my arm and uttering a low cry of horror.
"Come; Vera," I whispered, softly, "the mystery is solved. The guilty
one has received the wages of his sin."
She did not reply, but, with a deep-drawn sigh, as if a great weight had
been lifted from her mind, she leaned heavily upon my arm and left the
chamber of death.
Boris followed.
His thirst for vengeance had been satisfied.