A moment later the hall door burst open for a second time, and in the flood of electric light that poured in, Julian Paul Goetze saw a gray, veiled figure, stretched upon the floor, the gloved hand clasping a jeweled hilt, the blade of which was buried in her bosom. A stream of crimson was discoloring the fabric of her dress, and spreading in a dark pool on the rich carpet. Rushing forward he caught up the prostrate form and tore away the veil. Then, as if by magic, a revelation swept over him in one mighty wave of horror. _The strange, piteous look he had once seen on the face of Evelin March was again before him, and while he gazed he saw it melting--melting, almost insensibly, like the blending outlines of a dissolving view--into the saintly loveliness of Eva Delorme._ The mists of doubt, the shadows of suspicion, and the fever of curiosity that had troubled him during those feverish months, were suddenly swept away. Eva Delorme--Evelin March--one and the same. One body, one soul, one heart; by some strange freak of nature--some wild mental vagary or devilish witchery of which he could not know--made two in life, but only one in death. Above her was a heavy French-plate mirror, in an ornamented frame, cracked entirely across. From its polished surface the self-aimed, glancing dagger had found its way to the one troubled heart of those two strange lives, and brought to it silence and restfulness forever.