's thunderous regard, "I am sure of that."

He said it in such a tone that Natacha continued to look at him with
incomprehensible anguish in her eyes. Ah, the baffling of those two
regards, the mute scene between those two young people, one of whom
wished to make himself understood and the other afraid beyond all other
things of being thoroughly understood. Natacha murmured:

"How he looks at me! See, he is the demon; yes, yes, the little domovoi,
the little domovoi. But look out, poor wretch; you don't know what you
have done."

She turned brusquely toward Koupriane:

"Where is the body of Michael Nikolaievitch?" said she. "I wish to see
it. I must see it."

Feodor Feodorovitch had fallen, as though asleep, upon a chair. Matrena
Petrovna dared not approach him. The giant appeared hurt to the death,
disheartened forever. What neither bombs, nor bullets, nor poison had
been able to do, the single idea of his daughter's co-operation in the
work of horror plotted about him--or rather the impossibility he faced
of understanding Natacha's attitude, her mysterious conduct, the
chaos of her explanations, her insensate cries, her protestations
of innocence, her accusations, her menaces, her prayers and all
her disorder, the avowed fact of her share in that tragic nocturnal
adventure where Michael Nikolaievitch found his death, had knocked over
Feodor Feodorovitch like a straw. One instant he sought refuge in some
vague hope that Koupriane was less assured than he pretended of the
orderly's guilt. But that, after all, was only a detail of no importance
in his eyes. What alone mattered was the significance of Natacha's act,
and the unhappy girl seemed not to be concerned over what he would
think of it. She was there to fight against Koupriane, Rouletabille and
Matrena Petrovna, defending her Michael Nikolajevitch, while he, the
father, after having failed to overawe her just now, was there in a
corner suffering agonizedly.

Koupriane walked over to him and said:

"Listen to me carefully, Feodor Feodorovitch. He who speaks to you is
Head of the Police by the will of the Tsar, and your friend by the grace
of God. If you do not demand before us, who are acquainted with all that
has happened and who know how to keep any necessary secret, if you do
not demand of your daughter the reason for her conduct with Michael
Nikolaievitch, and if she does not tell you in all sincerity, there is
nothing more for me to do here. My men hav