Tikulski went after the coffee apparatus; presently returned, arranged it on the table, and applied a match to the lamp. “While we wait for the water to boil,” he said, “I will give you the result of my night’s labor. I composed it walking up and down under the trees in the park, so that they—the trees—might claim it for their fruit! Ha-ha! A heavenly night: the sky could scarcely hold the stars, there were so many; but terribly warm.” Again he went away—to fetch his instrument. He was gone a long while. The water began to boil—boiled loudly and more loudly. A dense stream of vapor gushed from the nozzle of the pot. Still he remained. At last I lost patience. Stepping to the threshold, I called his name. At first he did not answer. “Mr. Tikulski!” I repeated. I seemed to hear—no, certainly did hear—his voice, low, inarticulate, down at the other end of the hallway. It alarmed me. Had he met with an accident? hurt himself? fainted after the night’s vigil? paralysis? apoplexy? I hastened toward him, entered the room whence his voice had sounded. There he stood. He stood in the center of the floor, immobile as a statue, his face livid, his attitude that of a man who has seen a ghost. “For God’s sake, what has happened?” I cried. He appeared not to hear. I repeated my question. He roused himself. A tremor swept over him. A painful rattling was audible in his throat. He raised his arm heavily and pointed. “L-look,” he gasped. I looked. How can I tell what I saw? IV. AND yet I must tell it, though the telling consume me like a flame. I saw a bed and Veronika lying on it, face downward. She was dressed in her customary black gown. I supposed she was asleep. I supposed she was asleep, for one short moment. That was the last moment of my life. For then the truth burst upon me, fell upon me like a shaft from out the skies and hurled me into hell. I saw—not that she was dead only. If she had only died it would be different. I saw—merciful God!—I saw that she was murdered.