cross. It was a miracle that he
had managed to keep going. Doubtless he hoped to die in peace if only
he could reach his own house. He apparently had believed he could manage
that once he had broken through his human bloodhounds. He did not know
he was recognized and his place of retreat therefore known.

Now the police had gone from cellar to garret. Koupriane came from the
Trebassof villa and joined them, Rouletabille followed him. The reporter
could not stand the sight of that body, that still had a lingering
warmth, of the great open eyes that seemed to stare at him, reproaching
him for this violent death. He turned away in distaste, and perhaps a
little in fright. Koupriane caught the movement.

"Regrets?" he queried.

"Yes," said Rouletabille. "A death always must be regretted. None the
less, he was a criminal. But I'm sincerely sorry he died before he had
been driven to confess, even though we are sure of it."

"Being in the pay of the Nihilists, you mean? That is still your
opinion?" asked Koupriane.

"Yes."

"You know that nothing has been found here in his rooms. The only
compromising papers that have been found belong to Boris Mourazoff."

"Why do you say that?"

"Oh--nothing."

Koupriane questioned his men further. They replied categorically. No,
nothing had been found that directly incriminated anybody; and suddenly
Rouletabille noted that the conversation of the police and their chief
had grown more animated. Koupriane had become angry and was violently
reproaching them. They excused themselves with vivid gesture and rapid
speech.

Koupriane started away. Rouletabille followed him. What had happened?

As he came up behind Koupriane, he asked the question. In a few curt
words, still hurrying on, Koupriane told the reporter he had just
learned that the police had left the little Bohemian Katharina alone for
a moment with the expiring officer. Katharina acted as housekeeper for
Michael and Boris. She knew the secrets of them both. The first thing
any novice should have known was to keep a constant eye upon her, and
now no one knew where she was. She must be searched for and found at
once, for she had opened Michael's shirt, and therein probably lay the
reason that no papers were found on the corpse when the police searched
it. The absence of papers, of a portfolio, was not natural.

The chase commenced in the rosy dawn of the isles. Already blood-like
tints were on the horizon. Some of the poli