“‘They are very light,’ I said.  ’And here are two pistols on top of them.’

“These pistols were the surprise that I had prepared in a spirit of mischief.  I had taken them from the pockets of the last two specimens and kept them for the sake of the devices that those two imbeciles had scratched on the butts.

“‘Pistols!’ exclaimed Piragoff.  ‘Let me look at them.’  He snatched the weapons from the top of the box and took them over to the lamp.  Immediately I heard a gasp of astonishment.

“’God!  But this is a strange thing!  Here is Louis Plotcovitch’s pistol!  And this other belonged to Boris Slobodinsky!  They have been here too!’

“He stared at me open-mouthed, holding the pistols—­which I had carefully unloaded—­one in each trembling hand.  What little nerve he had had was going fast.

“I laid the boxes on a small table and switched on the lamp that hung close over it.  High up above the table was one of the cross-beams of the roof.  From the beam there hung down two purchase-tackles.  The tail-rope of each tackle ended in a noose that was hitched on a hook on the wall, and the falls of the two tackles were hitched lightly over two other hooks.  But none of these appliances was visible.  The shaded lamp threw its bright light on the table only.

“Piragoff came across the room and laid down the pistols.

“‘Open those boxes,’ he said gruffly, ‘and let us see what is in them.’

“I took off the lid of one; and Piragoff started back with a gasp, but came back, snuffing at the box like a frightened animal.

“‘What the devil are these things?’ he demanded in a hoarse whisper.

“‘They look like dolls’ heads,’ I answered.

“‘They look like dead men’s heads,’ he whispered, shudderingly, ’only they are too small.  They are dreadful.  This collector man is a devil.  I should like to kill him.’  He glared with horrid fascination at the little dry preparations—­there were eight in this box, each in its own little black velvet compartment with its number and date on the label.  I opened the second box—­also containing eight—­and he stared into that with the same shuddering fascination.

“‘What do you suppose these dates mean?’ he whispered.

“‘I suppose,’ I replied, ’those are the dates on which he acquired them.  Here is another box.’  This, the last one, was intended to hold nine heads, but it contained only eight—­at present.  There was an empty compartment of red velvet in the middle, on either side of which were the heads of the last two specimens, twenty-three and twenty-four.

“I took off the lid and stood back to see what would happen.

“Piragoff stared into the box without speaking for two or three seconds.  Suddenly he uttered a shriek.  ’It is Boris!  Boris and Louis Plotcovitch!’

“His figure stiffened.  He stood rigid with his hands on his thighs, leaning over the box, his hair bristling, his white face running with sweat, his jaw dropped; the very personification of horror.  And of a sudden he began to tremble violently.