Part 92 (1/2)

He turned the leaf suddenly, and glanced at the remainder of the letter.

”Good G.o.d! what does the man mean? What has he done?” he exclaimed.

His face was quite pale. The letter dropped from his hands. Then he jumped to his feet.

”Come, Brand--quick--quick!” he said, hurriedly. ”You must come with me--”

”But what is the matter?” Brand said, following him in amazement.

”I don't know,” said Edwards, almost incoherently. ”He may be raving--it may only be drunkenness--but he says he is about to kill himself in place of Lind: the young lady shall not be troubled--she was kind to him, and he is grateful. I am to send her a message.”

By this time the two friends were hurrying to the dingy little thoroughfare in which Kirski had his lodgings.

”Don't alarm yourself, Edwards,” said Brand; ”he has broken out again, that is all.”

”I am not so sure. He was at his work yesterday, and sober enough.”

”His brain may have given way, then; it was never very strong. But these continual ravings about murder or suicide are dangerous; they will develop into homicidal mania, most likely; and if he cannot get at his enemy Michaieloff he may do a mischief to somebody else.”

”I hope he has not done a mischief to himself already,” said Edwards, who had had more opportunities than his companion of studying the workings of Kirski's disordered brain.

They reached the house and knocked at the door. The landlady made her appearance.

”Is Kirski in the house?” Edwards asked, eagerly.

”No, he ain't,” she said, with but scant courtesy.

”Thank G.o.d!” he exclaimed, in great relief. ”You are sure? He went out to his work as usual?”

”How should I know?” said the woman, who was evidently not on good terms with her lodger.

”He had his breakfast as usual?”

”His breakfast!” she said scornfully. ”No, he hadn't. He may pick up his breakfast about the streets, like a cat; but he don't have any 'ere. And a cat he is, sneaking up and down the stairs: how do I know whether he is in the house or whether he ain't?”

At this Edwards turned pale again with a sudden fear. Brand interposed.

”You don't know? Then show us his room; we will see for ourselves.”

He pa.s.sed the woman, leaving her to shut the door, and went into the small dark pa.s.sage, waiting for her at the foot of the stairs. Grumbling to herself, she came along to show them the way. It did not pay her to waste her time like this, she said, for a lodger who took no food in the house, and spent his earnings in the gin-shop. She should not be surprised if they were to find him asleep at that time of the day. He had ways like a cat.

The landing they reached was as dark as the staircase; so that when she turned a handle and flung a door open there was a sudden glare of light.

At the same moment she uttered a shrill scream, and retreated backward.

She had caught a glimpse of some horrible thing--she hardly knew what.

It was the body of the man Kirski lying p.r.o.ne upon the uncarpeted floor, his hands clinched. There was a dark pool of blood beside him.

Edwards sunk shuddering into a chair, sick and faint. He could neither move nor speak; he dared hardly look at the object lying there in the wan light. But Brand went quickly forward, and took hold of one of these clinched hands. It was quite cold. He tried to turn over the body, but relinquished that effort. The cause of death was obvious enough. Kirski had stabbed himself with one of the tools used in his trade; either he had deliberately lain down on the floor to make sure of driving the weapon home, or he had accidentally fallen so after dealing himself the fatal blow. Apparently he had been dead for some hours.

Brand rose. The landlady at the door was alternately screaming and sobbing; declaring that she was ruined; that not another lodger would come to her house.