“Just so,” continued Martianoff. “When I found the letter was missing, I had strict watch kept upon both Guéneau and the girl, by which means I discovered that he handed her the papers without reading them himself, for she had asked him not to do so. It was clear that, when she read them, she would place her father upon his guard, and there was also a possibility of us being caught like rats in a trap. Hence it was imperative, both for the success of our plans and the prestige of the Imperial Police, that we should secure her silence. There was but one way to do this—death! I returned to St. Germain that night——” “I know the rest,” interrupted the spy; “I followed you, thinking you might require assistance. You met the girl on the river bank, after she had left Gaston, and having taken the papers from her pocket, gripped her by the throat and threw her into the river.” “Bah! she was only a Jewess,” said Martianoff unconcernedly. “Had she escaped she would have probably taken the papers to one of the Socialist Deputies, an interpellation would have been made in the Chamber, and the letter produced. With what result? Disaster, disgrace, and public opinion so strong against us that we should be compelled to quit France.” “Instead of which we shall receive commendation, and perhaps decoration, from the Tzar,” observed the Frenchman. “Ah! you were right, M’sieur le Général. You are always right. His Majesty should, indeed, be gratified at possessing such a diplomatic agent as yourself. The murder shall not be mentioned again between us.” At that moment there were sounds as of some one walking across the room, therefore I left the door abruptly and consequently heard no more. After the departure of the stout Frenchman I was sent to deliver a letter in the Avenue de l’Opéra, and after an absence of half an hour returned and continued my work in my own room. Scarcely had I resumed when the door-bell again rang. Opening it, I was confronted by Paul Shiryàlov, who held a letter in his hand. “An invitation to a ball at the Franco-Russian Club; to be delivered personally,” he whispered significantly, as he passed me and entered the General’s room unannounced. There was nothing unusual in this, for he frequently brought messages, therefore I returned to my work of dusting books. A moment later, however, I heard a low exclamation of surprise, followed by a peculiar noise as if some heavy article had fallen upon the floor, and I saw Shiryàlov, with pale, affrighted face, hurrying out. I rushed into Martianoff’s room to ascertain what had happened, but at first saw nothing unusual. On the opposite side of the writing-table, however, a horrifying sight met my gaze. Lying upon the rug before the fireplace was the General. Blood was upon his hands, and a brief examination showed that he had been shot in the breast with a revolver. He was still breathing, and as I lifted his head upon my arm he gasped the one word in Russian, “Revenge!”