In the trial after the revolt at Cronstadt two young women were
   charged with wearing bombs as false bosoms.
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At the corner of Aptiekarski-Pereoulok Rouletabille came in the way of Koupriane, who was leaving for Pere Alexis’s place and, seeing the reporter, stopped his carriage and called that he was going immediately to the datcha.

“You have seen Pere Alexis?”

“Yes,” said Koupriane.  “And this time I have it on you.  What I told you, what I foresaw, has happened.  But have you any news of the sufferers?  Apropos, rather a curious thing has happened.  I met Kister on the Newsky just now.”

“The physician?”

“Yes, one of Trebassof’s physicians whom I had sent an inspector to his house to fetch to the datcha, as well as his usual associate, Doctor Litchkof.  Well, neither Litchkof nor he had been summoned.  They didn’t know anything had happened at the datcha.  They had not seen my inspector.  I hope he has met some other doctor on the way and, in view of the urgency, has taken him to the datcha.”

“That is what has happened,” replied Rouletabille, who had turned very pale.  “Still, it is strange these gentlemen had not been notified, because at the datcha the Trebassofs were told that the general’s usual doctors were not at home and so the police had summoned two others who would arrive at once.”

Koupriane jumped up in the carriage.

“But Kister and Litchkof had not left their houses.  Kister, who had just met Litchkof, said so.  What does this mean?”

“Can you tell me,” asked Rouletabille, ready now for the thunder-clap that his question invited, “the name of the inspector you ordered to bring them?”

“Priemkof, a man with my entire confidence.”

Koupriane’s carriage rushed toward the Isles.  Late evening had come.  Alone on the deserted route the horses seemed headed for the stars; the carriage behind seemed no drag upon them.  The coachman bent above them, arms out, as though he would spring into the ether.  Ah, the beautiful night, the lovely, peaceful night beside the Neva, marred by the wild gallop of these maddened horses!

“Priemkof!  Priemkof!  One of Gounsovski’s men!  I should have suspected him,” railed Koupriane after Rouletabille’s explanations.  “But now, shall we arrive in time?”

They stood up in the carriage, urging the coachman, exciting the horses:  “Scan!  Scan!  Faster, douriak!” Could they arrive before the “living bombs”?  Could they hear them before they arrived?  Ah, there was Eliaguine!

They rushed from the one bank to the other as though there were no bridges in their insensate course.  And their ears were strained for the explosion, for the abomination now to come, preparing slyly in the night so hypocritically soft under the cold glance of the stars.  Suddenly, “Stop, stop!” Rouletabille cried to the coachman.