“I care nothing for that,” she answered defiantly. “If you knew half as much of the injustice, the bribery, and corruption that exist all over the empire as I do, you would find it difficult to restrain your tongue.” She spoke earnestly in French, so that Ivan, the driver, could not understand; and the vehemence of her words showed her to be suffering from some injustice. I was amazed at her violent denunciation. Suddenly a thought occurred to me, and bending, I whispered into her ear. “So Mademoiselle is a _Nihilist_?” She started, turning pale. With trembling fingers she clutched my arm and gasped— “Who—who told you? Have I betrayed my secret?” “Words are an index to one’s convictions,” I replied briefly, smiling. “Now that I know that you are working for the Cause, surely I may know why you are going to Irkutsk.” “Ah,” she cried, terribly agitated. “Do not let us discuss it. The driver may understand, and—and it would mean _death_!” “Your secret is quite safe with me, Mariána,” I said, reassuringly, taking her gloved hand in mine, and I uttered one word that gave her confidence. “I—I do trust you,” she replied, in a low, faltering voice. “Ah! You do not know my past!” And her breast heaved and fell in a long, deep-drawn sigh. “May I not know it? Are the recollections so very bitter?” “Bitter!” she cried. “It is a story of wretched duplicity and dishonour. If you knew all you would hate me; therefore it is best that I should keep my secret hidden, and when we part you will perhaps sometimes remember me with kindly thoughts.” “But tell me one thing,” I demanded anxiously. “Is Paul Cherniávski your protector?” She held her breath, and as she looked at me I saw tears welling in her bright eyes. “Yes,” she faltered. “He—he is my only friend.” The silence that ensued was long and painful. The truth, as far as it went, was out, and I felt angry with myself. That night, having halted at the lonely post-house of Artinsk, we sat in the uncleanly common-room, and Mariána, as usual, served tea to Ivan and myself from the _samovar_. As she handed the driver his cup I noticed that his hand trembled and he looked at her with a strange, almost demoniacal expression of hatred. In a moment, however, it had passed; yet throughout the evening, while Mariána and I smoked our cigarettes and chatted to the old post-house keeper and his wife, the sole occupants, I pondered over it, and at night little sleep came to my eyes. Was there some secret between them, or had he understood Mariána’s confession? Rising early, I went out into the clear, crisp air to smoke and think. It was a lonely place, sixty miles to the nearest village. When I returned I found the post-house keeper speechless with terror, and at once apprehended that some strange event had occurred. Judge my amazement and horror, however, when he half dragged me to a room where I saw Ivan, the driver, lying upon his truckle bed fully dressed. He had been stabbed to the heart!