r face singularly calm, watched this extraordinary
scene that was like a menagerie in which the tamer himself had become
a wild beast. From another corner, Rouletabille kept his eyes fixed on
Natacha who ignored him. Ah, that girl, sphinx to them all! Even to him
who thought a while ago that he could read things invisible to other
vulgar men in her features, in her eyes! The impassive face of that girl
whose father they had tried to assassinate only a few hours before and
who had just pressed the hand of Priemkof, the assassin! Once she turned
her head slightly toward Rouletabille. The reporter then looked towards
her with increased eagerness, his eyes burning, as though he would say:
"Surely, Natacha, you are not the accomplice of your father's assassins;
surely it was not you who poured the poison!"

But Natacha's glance passed the reporter coldly over. Ah, that
mysterious, cold mask, the mouth with its bitter, impudent smile, an
atrocious smile which seemed to say to the reporter: "If it is not I who
poured the poison, then it is you!"

It was the visage common enough to the daughters whom Koupriane had
spoken of a little while before, "the young girls who read" and, their
reading done, set themselves to accomplish some terrible thing, some
thing because of which, from time to time, they place stiff ropes around
the necks of these young females.

Finally, Koupriane's frenzy wore itself out and he made a sign. The men
filed out in dismal silence. Two of them remained to guard Natacha. From
outside came the sounds of a carriage from Sestroriesk ready to convey
the girl to the Dungeons of Sts. Peter and Paul. A final gesture from
the Prefect of Police and the rough bands of the two guards seized the
prisoner's frail wrists. They hustled her along, thrust her outside,
jamming her against the doorway, venting thus their anger at the
reproaches of their chief. A few seconds later the carriage departed,
not to stop until the fortress was reached with the trickling
tombs under the bed of the river where young girls about to die are
confined--who have read too much, without entirely understanding, as
Monsieur Kropotkine says.

Koupriane prepared to leave in turn. Rouletabille stopped him.

"Excellency, I wish you to tell me why you have shown such anger to your
men just now."

"They are brute beasts," cried the Chief of Police, quite beside himself
again. "They have made me miss the biggest catch of my life. They threw