As the boat glided on, the match burned out in Count Kallash’s fingers.  He threw it into the water, and opened his matchbox to take another.

At the same moment he felt a sharp blow on the head, followed by a second, and he sank senseless in the bottom of the boat.

“Where is the money?” cried Bodlevski, who had struck him with the handle of the oar.  “Get his coat open!” and the baroness deftly drew the thick packet from the breast pocket of his coat.  “Here it is!  I have it!” she replied quickly.

“Now, overboard with him!  Keep the body steady!” A dull splash, and then silence.  “To-night we shall sleep secure!”

They counted without their host.  Princess Anna had also her scheme of vengeance, and had worked it out, without a word to her brother.  When Natasha and Bodlevski entered their apartment, they found the police in possession, and a few minutes later both were under arrest.  Abundant evidence of fraud and forgery was found in their dwelling, and the vast Siberian solitudes avenged the death of their last victim.

JOeRGEN WILHELM BERGSOeE

THE AMPUTATED ARMS

It happened when I was about eighteen or nineteen years old (began Dr. Simsen).  I was studying at the University, and being coached in anatomy by my old friend Soelling.  He was an amusing fellow, this Solling.  Full of jokes and whimsical ideas, and equally merry, whether he was working at the dissecting table or brewing a punch for a jovial crowd.

He had but one fault—­if one might call it so—­and that was his exaggerated idea of punctuality.  He grumbled if you were late two minutes; any longer delay would spoil the entire evening for him.  He himself was never known to be late.  At least not during the entire years of my studying.

One Wednesday evening our little circle of friends met as usual in my room at seven o’clock.  I had made the customary preparations for the meeting, had borrowed three chairs—­I had but one myself—­had cleaned all my pipes, and had persuaded Hans to take the breakfast dishes from the sofa and carry them downstairs.  One by one my friends arrived, the clock struck seven, and to our great astonishment, Solling had not yet appeared.  One, two, even five minutes passed before we heard him run upstairs and knock at the door with his characteristic short blows.

When he entered the room he looked so angry and at the same time so upset that I cried out:  “What’s the matter, Solling?  You look as if you had been robbed.”

“That’s exactly what has happened,” replied Solling angrily.  “But it was no ordinary sneak thief,” he added, hanging his overcoat behind the door.

“What have you lost?” asked my neighbor Nansen.

“Both arms from the new skeleton I’ve just recently received from the hospital,” said Soelling with an expression as if his last cent had been taken from him.  “It’s vandalism!”