He carried the paper down-stairs.

“He appears to have burnt the photograph, Edwards; but he has left this—­see.”

Edwards glanced at the trembling scrawl with a slight shiver; the handwriting was the same as that he had received half an hour before.

“It is only Article V.,” he said.  “The poor fellow used to keep repeating that, after Calabressa and I taught him in Venice.”

“But what is written below?”

Edwards forced himself to take the paper in his hands, and to scan more carefully its contents.

“It is Russian,” he said, “but so badly written. ’My life is not endurable longer, but I shall die happy in being of service to the beautiful angel who was kind to me.  Tell her she need not be in trouble any more.  I forgive Pavel Michaieloff, as my masters desire.  I do not wish my wife or my neighbors to know what I have done.’”

“This we have no right to meddle with,” Brand said, thoughtfully.  “I will put it back where I got it.  But you see, Edwards, you will have to admit that you were aware this poor wretch was in communication with some secret society or other.  Further than that you need say nothing.  The cause of his suicide is clear enough; the man was mad when he came to England with that wild craving for revenge in his brain.”

Brand carried the paper up-stairs again, and placed it where he had found it.  At the same moment there was a sound of footsteps below; and presently the police-officers, accompanied by the landlady and by Gathorne Edwards, who had somewhat recovered his composure, entered to hold their preliminary investigation.  The notes that the inspector took down in his pocket-book were brief enough, and were mostly answers to questions addressed to Brand, regarding what he knew of the deceased man’s circumstances.  The police-surgeon had meanwhile had the body placed on the bed; he also was of opinion that the man had been dead some hours.  Edwards translated for the inspector the writing on the paper found lying there, and said he believed Kirski had some connection with a secret society, but that it was obvious he had destroyed himself from despair; and that, indeed, the unhappy man had never been properly right in his mind since ever he had known him, though they had hoped, by getting him to do steady work and sure wages, to wean him away from brooding over the wrongs that had driven him from his native country.  Edwards gave the officer his address, Brand saying that he had to leave England that same night, and would not be available for any further inquiry, but that his friend knew precisely as much about the case as himself.  Then he and his companion left.

Edwards breathed more freely when he got out of the house, even into the murky atmosphere of Soho.

“It is a tragic end,” he said, “but perhaps it is the best that could have befallen him.  I called yesterday at the shop, and found he was there, and sober, though I did not see him.  I was surprised to find he had gone back.”