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Updated: May 7, 2025
"You fetched me out of prison, you and Inspector Freeman," I said slowly. "Look here, don't you worry," he began. "Yes, I must I want to get things clear; wait a bit. He said something. I know; he came to arrest me for murder, the murder of Cassavetti." "Just so; and a jolly good thing for you he did!
I remembered the man's terror of Cassavetti or Selinski as he had called him, and his evident conviction that he was in some way connected with the danger that threatened "the gracious lady," who, alas, seemed determined to be anything but gracious to me on this unlucky evening. Cassavetti listened impassively.
You were taken for some one else; some one whom you resemble very closely." "That's just what I thought; though father won't believe it; or he pretends he won't; but I am sure he knows something that he will not tell me. But there's another thing, that dreadful man Cassavetti.
"Doubtless he considered me too insignificant," replied Cassavetti, suavely enough, though I felt, rather than saw, that he eyed me malignantly. "Oh, you are not in the least insignificant, though you are exasperatingly how shall I put it? opinionated," she retorted, and turned to me. "Mr. Cassavetti has accused me of being a Russian."
Huddled up in a heap, almost behind the door, was the body of a man; the face with its staring eyes was upturned to the light. It was Cassavetti himself, dead; stabbed to the heart. I bent over the corpse and touched the forehead tentatively with my finger-tips. It was stone cold. The man must have been dead many hours. "Come on; we must send for the police; pull yourself together, man!"
Apparently, he had intercepted something on its way to the Boulak Museum which, he said, was "a genuine Amen-Hotepa queen's scarab of the Fourth Dynasty." Now Wilton had bought from Cassavetti, whose reputation is not above suspicion, a scarab of much the same scarabeousness, and had left it in his London chambers. Hackman at a venture, but knowing Cassavetti, pronounced it an imposition.
The bit of stuff dangling from Cassavetti's pass-key; the hieroglyphic on the portrait, the flower Anne had given to Cassavetti, and to which he seemed to attach so much significance. All red geraniums. What did they mean?
Yet the man didn't see it; that man with the dark eager face, who was standing beside her, who took a spray of the flowers from her hand. What a fool this Cassavetti is not to know that she is "La Mort!"
Cassavetti certainly wasn't in his rooms then, anyhow, and I shouldn't think any one else was; for he told me afterwards, at dinner, that he came in before seven. He must have just missed the old man." "What became of the key?" "I gave it back to the old man." "Although you thought it strange that such a person should be in possession of it?" "Well, it wasn't my affair, was it?" I remonstrated.
He could feel that it was full of men. 'Where's the trouble? said he. 'In the Balkans at last? Why didn't some one tell me? 'We thought you wouldn't be interested, said the Nilghai, shamefacedly. 'It's in the Soudan, as usual. 'You lucky dogs! Let me sit here while you talk. I shan't be a skeleton at the feast. Cassavetti, where are you? Your English is as bad as ever.
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