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Updated: May 1, 2025
"Pray for the dead, and sprinkle the circle with holy water." The priest, as well as his trembling limbs would allow, obeyed; whereupon the bird instantly vanished. "For Heaven's sake," M. Durant gasped, "tell us what it all means." "Only this," M. Hersant said solemnly, "the phantasm we saw caused the death of the Popenkoff family.
There seemed to be no doubt now that Marthe had been murdered, and the populace cried shame on the police; for the assassin was still at large. They agreed that the murderer could be no other than Peter Popenkoff, and the editor of the local paper repeating these statements, Peter Popenkoff was duly charged with the crimes, and arrested.
He was pronounced guilty by all excepting M. Hersant; and of course M. Hersant thought him guilty, too; only he liked to think differently from anyone else. "I don't want to commit myself," was all they could get out of him. "I may have something to say later on." M. Durant laughed and shrugged his shoulders. "It, undoubtedly, is Peter Popenkoff," he observed.
The body of a handsome young peasant woman, called Marthe Popenkoff, was found in a lonely part of the road, between Orskaia and Orenburg, with the skin of her face and body shockingly torn and lacerated, but without there being any wounds deep enough to cause her death, which the doctor attributed to syncope.
"I had an idea that he was the culprit all along." But a day or two later, Peter Popenkoff was found dead in prison with the skin on his face and hands all torn to shreds. "There! Didn't we say so?" cried the inconsequent mob. "Peter Popenkoff was innocent. One of the police themselves is the murderer."
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