Through the opening the shadow of an arm stretched, an arm which held in its fingers something which shone.  Rouletabille felt Matrena ready to bound.  He encircled her, he pressed her in his arms, he restrained her in silence, and he had a horrible fear of hearing her suddenly shout, while the arm stretched out, almost touched the pillow on the bed where the general continued to sleep a sleep of peace such as he had not known for a long time.

VII

ARSENATE OF SODA

The mysterious hand held a phial and poured the entire contents into the potion.  Then the hand withdrew as it had come, slowly, prudently, slyly, and the key turned in the lock and the bolt slipped back into place.

Like a wolf, Rouletabille, warning Matrena for a last time not to budge, gained the landing-place, bounded towards the stairs, slid down the banister right to the veranda, crossed the drawing-room like a flash, and reached the little sitting-room without having jostled a single piece of furniture.  He noticed nothing, saw nothing.  All around was undisturbed and silent.

The first light of dawn filtered through the blinds.  He was able to make out that the only closed door was the one to Natacha’s chamber.  He stopped before that door, his heart beating, and listened.  But no sound came to his ear.  He had glided so lightly over the carpet that he was sure he had not been heard.  Perhaps that door would open.  He waited.  In vain.  It seemed to him there was nothing alive in that house except his heart.  He was stifled with the horror that he glimpsed, that he almost touched, although that door remained closed.  He felt along the wall in order to reach the window, and pulled aside the curtain.  Window and blinds of the little room giving on the Neva were closed.  The bar of iron inside was in its place.  Then he went to the passage, mounted and descended the narrow servants’ stairway, looked all about, in all the rooms, feeling everywhere with silent hands, assuring himself that no lock had been tampered with.  On his return to the veranda, as he raised his head, he saw at the top of the main staircase a figure wan as death, a spectral apparition amid the shadows of the passing night, who leaned toward him.  It was Matrena Petrovna.  She came down, silent as a phantoms and he no longer recognized her voice when she demanded of him, “Where?  I require that you tell me.  Where?”

“I have looked everywhere,” he said, so low that Matrena had to come nearer to understand his whisper.  “Everything is shut tight.  And there is no one about.”

Matrena looked at Rouletabille with all the power of her eyes, as though she would discover his inmost thoughts, but his clear glance did not waver, and she saw there was nothing he wished to hide.  Then Matrena pointed her finger at Natacha’s chamber.

“You have not gone in there?” she inquired.