At this point I am impelled to a little confession. The murderous impulse is, perhaps, not so uncommon as we assume. I daresay many respectable men and amiable women have felt it in all its attractive simplicity once or twice in their lives. It seems at such moments hardly sinful, merely too dangerous, and to be recognised as impossible to gratify only by reason of its danger. But I perceive that I am accusing the rest of the world in the hope of excusing myself; for at that moment, when the Pasha’s broad solid back was presented to me, a yard in front, I experienced a momentary but extremely strong temptation to raise my arm, move my finger and--transform the situation. I did not do it; but, on the other hand, I have never counted the desire to do it among the great sins of my life. Mouraki, I thought then and know now, deserved nothing better. Unhappily we have our own consciences to consider, and thus are often prevented from meting out to others the measure their deeds claim. [Illustration: “WE ARE READY FOR--ANYTHING--NOW.”] ‘I see nobody,’ said the Pasha. ‘But then the room is dark. Shall I pull back the curtain?’ ‘You’d better be careful,’ said I, laughing. ‘That’s what Vlacho did.’ ‘Ah, but you’re on the same side this time,’ he answered, and stepped across the room towards the curtain. Suddenly I became, or seemed to become, vaguely, uncomfortably, even terribly conscious of something there. Yet I could see nothing in the dark room, and I heard nothing. I can hardly think Mouraki shared my strange oppressive feeling; yet the curtain was not immediately drawn back, his figure bulked motionless just in front of me, and he repeated in tones that betrayed uneasiness: ‘I suppose I’d better draw back the curtain, hadn’t I?’ What was it? It must have been all fancy, born of the strain of excitement and the nervous tension in which I was living. I have had something of the feeling in the dark before and since, but never so strong, distinct and almost overpowering. I knew Constantine was not there. I had no fear of him if he were. Yet my forehead grew damp with sweat. Mouraki’s hand was on the curtain. He drew it back. The dull evening light spread sluggishly through the room. Mouraki turned and looked at me. I returned his gaze. A moment passed before either of us looked round. ‘There’s nobody behind the curtain,’ said he, with a slight sigh which seemed to express relief. ‘Do you see any one anywhere?’ Then I pulled myself together, and looked round. The chairs near me were empty, the couch had no occupant. But away in the corner of the room, in the shadow of a projecting angle of wall, I saw a figure seated in front of a table. On the table were writing-materials. The figure was a woman’s. Her arms were spread on the table, and her head lay between them. I raised my hand and pointed to her. Mouraki’s eyes obeyed my direction but came quickly back to me in question, and he arched his brows.