‘That will do, I think, sir,’ Lavender looked rather than spoke, and quietly opened the folding doors. There are certain spots—in themselves often commonplace enough—which are branded, by mere association, indelibly upon the retina. So is that inner room on mine. I remember every stick of furniture it contained; remember even the colour and pattern of the wall-paper—a faded fawn dotted with tarnished gold and silver fleur-de-lis. The room—like every other back drawing-room in an unfashionable suburb of that day—was narrow, but high and of some length, a window, at the far end, opening down to the floor, a little balcony beyond, and the tops of a few fruit-trees in the garden below. Across the window a couch had been drawn, upon which Fédore—wrapped in a loose dressing-gown of some pale silk stuff—had either been thrown or thrown herself in the heat of the recent struggle. On this side the couch, near the head of it, stood Marsigli, his back towards us. Fédore’s nerve was admirable, her self-control consummate. Quick as thought she grasped the situation and used it to her own advantage. As she saw the doors open, disclosing our presence, she neither exclaimed nor shrank. On the contrary, drawing herself into a sitting position, she calmly extended one hand, with a proud sweeping gesture, and, as calmly, spoke. ‘Marie has done her duty then, faithful soul, without waiting to be told! There is the door, Marsigli, and there, behind you, are the police—and Mr. Brownlow, an old friend of mine too—how fortunate! Yes, arrest him, gentlemen; and hang him if you can—I do not understand your English laws—as high as St. Paul’s, for the most cowardly and insolent villain you ever took.’ Marsigli turned, saw us, and suddenly raised his right arm. ‘Die then, since you prefer it,’ he said. ‘Thief, liar—adulteress.’ While, with a terrible cry, Fédore leapt off the couch. ‘A knife!’ she screamed. ‘Save me. He has a knife.’ And, as she ran towards us, I saw something narrow and bright flash downwards between her shoulders, and—a red spout of blood. Her knees gave under her. She lurched, flung up her arms, kneeling for an instant bolt upright, a world of agony and despair in her splendid eyes, and then, before either of us could reach her, fell back. CHAPTER XXXVII. Of the half-hour which followed I can give no coherent account. As I try to recall it, after the lapse of many years, details start into vivid relief, but without sequence or any clear relation of cause and effect.