‘With the greatest regret,’ wrote some local contributor from Kazan, ‘we must add to our dramatic record the news of the sudden death of our gifted actress Clara Militch, who had succeeded during the brief period of her engagement in becoming a favourite of our discriminating public. Our regret is the more poignant from the fact that Miss Militch by her own act cut short her young life, so full of promise, by means of poison. And this dreadful deed was the more awful through the talented actress taking the fatal drug in the theatre itself. She had scarcely been taken home when to the universal grief, she expired. There is a rumour in the town that an unfortunate love affair drove her to this terrible act.’ Aratov slowly laid the paper on the table. In outward appearance he remained perfectly calm ... but at once something seemed to strike him a blow in the chest and the head--and slowly the shock passed on through all his limbs. He got up, stood still on the spot, and sat down again, again read through the paragraph. Then he got up again, lay down on the bed, and clasping his hands behind, stared a long while at the wall, as though dazed. By degrees the wall seemed to fade away ... vanished ... and he saw facing him the boulevard under the grey sky, and _her_ in her black cape ... then her on the platform ... saw himself even close by her. That something which had given him such a violent blow in the chest at the first instant, began mounting now ... mounting into his throat.... He tried to clear his throat; tried to call some one--but his voice failed him--and, to his own astonishment, tears rushed in torrents from his eyes ... what called forth these tears? Pity? Remorse? Or was it simply his nerves could not stand the sudden shock? Why, she was nothing to him? was she? ‘But, perhaps, it’s not true after all,’ the thought came as a sudden relief to him. ‘I must find out! But from whom? From the princess? No, from Kupfer ... from Kupfer? But they say he’s not in Moscow--no matter, I must try him first!’ With these reflections in his head, Aratov dressed himself in haste, called a cab and drove to Kupfer’s. IX Though he had not expected to find him, he found him. Kupfer had, as a fact, been away from Moscow for some time, but he had now been back a week, and was indeed on the point of setting off to see Aratov. He met him with his usual heartiness, and was beginning to make some sort of explanation ... but Aratov at once cut him short with the impatient question, ‘Have you heard it? Is it true?’ ‘Is what true?’ replied Kupfer, puzzled. ‘About Clara Militch?’ Kupfer’s face expressed commiseration. ‘Yes, yes, my dear boy, it’s true; she poisoned herself! Such a sad thing!’ Aratov was silent for a while. ‘But did you read it in the paper too?’ he asked--‘or perhaps you have been in Kazan yourself?’