sinister confession.
Like a vengeful fury she told over with cries and terrible gestures what
she had experienced, as if once more stretched before her the hand
armed with the poison, the mysterious hand above the pillow of her poor
invalid, her dear, rigorous tyrant; she told them about the preceding
night and all her terrors, and from her lips, by her voluble staccato
utterance that ominous recital had grotesque emphasis. Finally she told
all that she had done, she and the little Frenchman, in order not to
betray their suspicions to The Other, in order to take finally in their
own trap all those who for so many days and nights schemed for the death
of Feodor Feodorovitch. As she ended she pointed out Rouletabille to
Feodor and cried, "There is the one who has saved you."

Natacha, as she listened to this tragic recital, restrained herself
several times in order not to interrupt, and Rouletabille, who was
watching her closely, saw that she had to use almost superhuman efforts
in order to achieve that. All the horror of what seemed to be to her as
well as to Feodor a revelation of Michael's crime did not subdue her,
but seemed, on the contrary, to restore to her in full force all the
life that a few seconds earlier had fled from her. Matrena had hardly
finished her cry, "There is the one who has saved you," before Natacha
cried in her turn, facing the reporter with a look full of the most
frightful hate, "There is the one who has been the death of an innocent
man!" She turned to her father. "Ah, papa, let me, let me say that
Michael Nikolaievitch, who came here this evening, I admit, and whom, it
is true, I let into the house, that Michael Nikolaievitch did not
come here yesterday, and that the man who has tried to poison you is
certainly someone else."

At these words Rouletabille turned pale, but he did not let himself lose
self-control. He replied simply:

"No, mademoiselle, it was the same man."

And Koupriane felt compelled to add:

"Anyway, we have found the proof of Michael Nikolaievitch's relations
with the revolutionaries."

"Where have you found that?" questioned the young girl, turning toward
the Chief of Police a face ravished with anguish.

"At Krestowsky, mademoiselle."

She looked a long time at him as though she would penetrate to the
bottom of his thoughts.

"What proofs?" she implored.

"A correspondence which we have placed under seal."

"Was it addressed to him? What kind of correspond