his memory, singing in his ears as though they would deafen him.

"Do you doubt still?" he had asked her, "that Michael tried to poison
your father?"

And Natacha had replied, "I wish to believe it! I wish to believe it,
for your sake, my poor boy." And then he recalled her other words, still
more frightful now! "Couldn't someone have tried to poison my father
and not have come by the window?" He had faced such a hypothesis with
assurance then--but now, now that the poison continued, continued within
the house, where he believed himself so fully aware of all people and
things--continued now that Michael Nikolaievitch was dead--ah, where did
it come from, this poison?--and what was it? Pere Alexis would hurry his
analysis if he had any regard for poor Rouletabille.

For Rouletabille to doubt, and in an affair where already there was one
man dead through his agency, was torment worse than death.

When they arrived at police-headquarters, Rouletabille jumped from
Koupriane's carriage and without saying a word hailed an empty
isvotchick that was passing. He had himself driven back to Pere Alexis.
His doubt mastered his will; he could not bear to wait away. Under the
arch of Aptiekarski-Pereoulok he saw once more the man Koupriane had
placed there with the order to bring him Alexis's message. The man
looked at him in astonishment. Rouletabille crossed the court and
entered the dingy old room once more. Pere Alexis was not there,
naturally, engaged as he was in his laboratory. But a person whom he did
not recognize at first sight attracted the reporter's attention. In the
half-light of the shop a melancholy shadow leaned over the ikons on the
counter. It was only when he straightened up, with a deep sigh, and a
little light, deflected and yellow from passing through window-panes
that had known no touch of cleaning since they were placed there, fell
faintly on the face, that Rouletabille ascertained he was face to face
with Boris Mourazoff. It was indeed he, the erstwhile brilliant officer
whose elegance and charm the reporter had admired as he saw him at
beautiful Natacha's feet in the datcha at Eliaguine. Now, no more in
uniform, he had thrown over his bowed shoulders a wretched coat, whose
sleeves swayed listlessly at his sides, in accord with his mood of
languid desperation, a felt hat with the rim turned down hid a little
the misery in his face in these few days, these not-many hours, how he
was changed! But, even as