"Have you received no letter?" inquired she, hurriedly. "No. I have received nothing but your telegram. What a misfortune!" "I thought that perhaps he had written to you." "No. When did it happen?" "This morning a shot was heard in his chamber. A servant ran in and found him lifeless." "Was it here in the hotel?" "No. Fortunately he moved to Condamine yesterday." "What was the cause?" "How am I to know?" answered she, impatiently. "So far as I have heard he was not given to play." "No. They found money on his person." "You relieved him of his duties yesterday?" "Yes; but at his own request." "Did he take the dismissal to heart?" "I cannot tell," answered she, feverishly. "If he had wished, he might have gone sooner. But he was a madman, and this explains everything. Why did he not go sooner?" Svirski looked at her very attentively. "Calm yourself," said he. But she, mistaken as to the meaning of his words, answered,-- "There is so much that for me is disagreeable in this, and there may be so much trouble. Who knows but I shall have to give some explanation, some evidence--can I tell what? Oh, a fatal history!--besides there will be people's gossip. First, Vyadrovski's-- But I wanted to beg you to tell among acquaintances, that that unfortunate lost at play, that he lost even some of my money, and that that was the cause of his act. Should it come to testifying before a court, it would be better not to say this, for it might be proved untrue; but before people, it is necessary to talk so. If he had gone even to Mentone, or to Nice! Besides, God only knows whether he has not written something before his death purposely to take revenge on me! Only let a letter of that sort reach the papers after his death! From such persons everything may be expected. As it was, I wished to leave here; but now I must--" Svirski looked more and more attentively at her angry face, at her compressed lips, and said at last,-- "An unheard of thing!" "Really unheard of! But would it not increase gossip were we to go from here to-morrow?" "I do not think it would," said Svirski. Then he inquired about the hotel in which Kresovich had shot himself, and declared that he would go there, get information from the servants, and occupy himself with the dead man. She tried to stop him with uncommon stubborness; till at last he said,-- "Madame, he is not a dog, but a man; and it is necessary in every case to bury him." "Somebody will bury him anyhow," answered she. But Svirski took leave of her and went out. On the steps of the hotel he drew his hand across his forehead, then covered his head with his hat and said,-- "An unheard of thing!"