It would follow that of the Prince and of Olga Platanova, his friend.

But he was not thinking of his own death; he was thinking of the Prince's life! The atmosphere of suppressed excitement that characterised the hushed gatherings in the outer room did not fail to leave its impression upon him; he knew there was murder in the hearts of these fanatics; he could feel the strain that held their hitherto vehement lips to tense whisperings and mutterings.

He could distinguish the difference between the footsteps of to-day and those of yesterday; the tread was growing lighter, unconsciously more stealthy with each passing hour.
Forty-eight hours! That was all! Truxton found himself crying bitterly from time to time; not because he was in terror but because he knew of the thing that hourly drew nearer despite the fact that he knew! Olga Platanova's voice was heard no more before the Committee of Ten.
Something told him that she was being groomed and primed in an upstairs room! Primed like a gun of war! He wondered if she could be praying for courage to do the thing that had been set down for her to do.

Food now came irregularly to him.

She was no longer preparing it.
She was making herself ready! Early that night, as he lay with his ear to the crack of the door, he heard them discussing his own death.