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The Germ Of Death
by
Amid the clouds of fragrant light smoke we waited for Kazanovitch to break the silence.
“Perhaps you think that the iron hand of the Russian prime minister has broken the backbone of revolution in Russia,” he began at length. “But because the Duma is subservient, it does not mean that all is over. Not at all. We are not asleep. Revolution is smouldering, ready to break forth at any moment. The agents of the government know it. They are desperate. There is no means they would not use to crush us. Their long arm reaches even to New York, in this land of freedom.”
He rose and excitedly paced the room. Somehow or other, this man did not prepossess me. Was it that I was prejudiced by a puritanical disapproval of the things that pass current in Old World morality? Or was it merely that I found the great writer of fiction seeking the dramatic effect always at the cost of sincerity?
“Just what is it that you suspect?” asked Craig, anxious to dispense with the rhetoric and to get down to facts. ” Surely, when three persons are stricken, you must suspect something.”
“Poison,” replied Kazanovitch quickly. “Poison, and of a kind that even the poison doctors of St. Petersburg have never employed. Dr. Kharkoff is completely baffled. Your American doctors – two were called in to see Saratovsky – say it is the typhus fever. But Kharkoff knows better. There is no typhus rash. Besides” – and he leaned forward to emphasise his words – ” one does not get over typhus in a week and have it again as Saratovsky has.” I could see that Kennedy was growing impatient. An idea had occurred to him, and only politeness kept him listening to Kazanovitch longer.
“Doctor,” he said, as Kharkoff entered the room again, “do you suppose you could get some perfectly clean test-tubes and sterile bouillon from Miss Nevsky’s laboratory? I think I saw a rack of tubes on the table.”
“Surely,” answered Kharkoff.
“You will excuse us, Mr. Kazanovitch,” apologised Kennedy briskly, “but I feel that I am going to have a hard day to-morrow and – by the way, would you be so kind as to come up to my laboratory some time during the day, and continue your story.”
On the way out Craig took the doctor aside for a moment, and they talked earnestly. At last Craig motioned to me.
“Walter,” he explained, “Dr. Kharkoff is going to prepare some cultures in the test-tubes to-night so that I can make a microscopic examination of the blood of Saratovsky, Samarova, and later of his servant. The tubes will be ready early in the morning, and I have arranged with the doctor for you to call and get them if you have no objection.”
I assented, and we started downstairs. As we passed a door on the second floor, a woman’s voice called out, “Is that you, Boris?”
“No, Olga, this is Nicholas,” replied the doctor. “It is Samarova,” he said to us as he entered.
In a few moments he rejoined us. “She is no better,” he continued, as we again started away. “I may as well tell you, Professor Kennedy, just how matters stand here. Samarova is head over heels in love with Kazanovitch – you heard her call for him just now? Before they left Paris, Kazanovitch showed some partiality for Olga, but now Nevsky has captured him. She is indeed a fascinating woman, but as for me, if Olga would consent to become Madame Kharkoff, it should be done to-morrow, and she need worry no longer over her broken contract with the American theatre managers. But women are not that way. She prefers the hopeless love. Ah, well, I shall let you know if anything new happens. Good-night, and a thousand thanks for your help, gentlemen.”