were left alone, but neither of them
seemed to wonder at it, nor to hear the low, excited tones of many voices
talking rapidly and often together in the shop outside. Whenever their
eyes met, they both smiled, while their fingers did the accustomed
mechanical work.

When Schmidt entered the outer shop for the second time, he found the
tobacconist and his wife conversing in low tones together, in evident fear
of being overheard. He came and stood before them, lowering his voice to
the pitch of theirs, as he spoke.

"It is no fault of yours that the Count was not found dead in his bed this
morning," he began, fixing his fiery eyes on Akulina.

"What? What? What is this?" asked Fischelowitz excitedly.

"Only this," said the Cossack, displaying the letter he had brought from
the Count's rooms. "Nothing more. Your wife has succeeded very well. He is
quite mad now. I found him last night, helpless, in a sort of fit, stiff
and stark on the floor of his room. And this was in his pocket. Read it,
Herr Fischelowitz. Read it, by all means. I suppose your wife does not
mind your reading the letters she writes."

Fischelowitz took the letter stupidly, turned it over, saw the address,
and took out the folded sheet. Akulina's face expressed a blank amazement
almost comical in its vacuity. For once, she was taken off her guard. Her
husband read the letter over twice and examined the handwriting curiously.

"A joke is a joke, Akulina," he said at last. "But you have carried this
too far. What if the Count had died?"

"I would like to know what I am accused of," said Akulina, "and what all
this is about."

"I suppose you know your own handwriting," observed the Cossack, taking
the letter from the tobacconist's hands and holding it before her eyes.
"And if that is not enough to drive the poor man to the madhouse I do not
know what is. Perhaps you have forgotten all about it? Perhaps you are
mad, too?"

Akulina read the writing in her turn. Then she grew very angry.

"It is an abominable lie!" she exclaimed. "I never had anything to do with
it. I do not know whence this letter comes, and I do not care. I know
nothing about it."

"I suppose no one can prevent your saying so, at least," retorted the
Cossack.

"It is very queer," observed Fischelowitz, suddenly thrusting his hands
into his pockets and beginning to whistle softly as he looked through the
shop window.

"When I tell you that it is not my handwriting, you ought t