The next morning was bright and crisp, and the artist felt better than he had for many weeks. He arose happy in the thought that he should again see Eva Delorme so soon, and in the confidence that she would accept his offer of marriage. He was happier still in the prospect of cutting free from all the feverish torture of the past few months; of leaving behind all the unpleasant associations that clouded both their lives, along with the soot, and fumes, and temptations of this grimy city; and of dreaming away the winter with Eva on the coast of France.
He rose early and set out for a morning walk. His favoriterestaurant was near the heart of the city; he would go there for breakfast. The distance was considerable, but the brisk exercise was in harmony with his thoughts. The blood was circulating rhythmically through his veins; he threw back his shoulders and breathed in the fresh frosty air. He wanted to sing. In another week he would be away from all that was disagreeable and disgraceful—perhaps to-morrow. They would spend a whole year in Europe; may be they would not come back at all.
After breakfast he met two or three acquaintances; they remarked his unusual spirits.
"You must have made a big strike, Goetze; can't you tell us?"
"Yes, by and by; not now—later."
"Congratulations are in order, of course."
"Hardly yet; pretty soon."
He returned to his studio. Eva had named no hour, but he hoped she would come early. As he opened the street door he saw a long, thin, delicately tinted envelope that had been pushed beneath it in his absence. He knew instinctively that it was from Eva, and hastened into the studio to read it. It was not sealed and there was no address. Trembling with agitation he tore off the covering and read:
"Dearest Julian:"I am feeling badly this morning, so will not come for my sitting to-day, and since my portrait is so nearly finished I suppose there is really no need of my coming again for that purpose. I should have come, however, as I promised, had it been possible. And now, my dear friend, as regards the decision which so concerns us both, I will ask yourkind patience until to-morrow eve."On West L—— Street, between 18th and 19th, near the park, there is a large, old-fashioned, brick mansion. It is No. 74, east side—you cannot miss it. There is an arc electric light directly in front of it."Go to this place to-morrow night, exactly at six o'clock. If the door is fastened, ring, and the servant will admit you. There wait in the hall-way until I come. If the door is unlocked, enter and wait likewise, unless I am already within to meet you. Then I will give you my answer; and oh, my friend, if it be possible I will unfold to you the history and sad mystery of my poor life, which you have so kindly never sought to know.
"Dearest Julian:
"I am feeling badly this morning, so will not come for my sitting to-day, and since my portrait is so nearly finished I suppose there is really no need of my coming again for that purpose. I should have come, however, as I promised, had it been possible. And now, my dear friend, as regards the decision which so concerns us both, I will ask yourkind patience until to-morrow eve.
"On West L—— Street, between 18th and 19th, near the park, there is a large, old-fashioned, brick mansion. It is No. 74, east side—you cannot miss it. There is an arc electric light directly in front of it.
"Go to this place to-morrow night, exactly at six o'clock. If the door is fastened, ring, and the servant will admit you. There wait in the hall-way until I come. If the door is unlocked, enter and wait likewise, unless I am already within to meet you. Then I will give you my answer; and oh, my friend, if it be possible I will unfold to you the history and sad mystery of my poor life, which you have so kindly never sought to know.
"Eva."
Julian read this note again and again now with pleasure, again with anxiety. Surely she meant to accept him or she would not have written thus; she wouldnot have appointed a meeting with him at this old mansion. And why at this old mansion? Was it her home? No, that was not likely, or why was he to wait until she came? If her home, she would be waiting there for him. Probably the home of some friend of whom she had made a confidant, and who was in sympathy with her love affair. Yes, it must be this; and the mystery of her life, what could that be but some pre-natal pledge of marriage with one whom she despised, or tyrannical guardians, or both. She would probably be disinherited if she disobeyed. What did he care; money was not the end of God's judgment. He would take her away from it all; his precious darling, and she was ill, too; she was in pain and he could not go to her. He longed to sit by her side, and hold her handand pour out his love. He was bitterly disappointed at not seeing her to-day, but he almost forgot that, now, as he thought of her ill and suffering. He read and re-read the lines of her letter, and tried to comfort himself with the thought that it was no more than a headache brought on by her mental strain.
By and by, something else about this letter began to puzzle him. He had not thought of it at first, but gradually it dawned upon him that the handwriting was not exactly like that upon the card of Eva Delorme. It seemed to him that it was less delicate and more irregular. He took her card from the little tray on the table, and compared them. He decided that they were the same, after all. The letter was written hurriedly and she was ill; but the formation of the characterswas much the same. As he replaced the card his eye fell upon that of Evelin March. There was no similarity between the writing on the two cards, but as he glanced now from that of Evelin March to the letter he fancied one suggested faintly the nervous, dashing style of the other. The haunting curiosity that had once possessed him returned for a moment. There was a strange fear in his heart which he could not name. He compared the two more closely, and as he did so the fancy disappeared. It was like certain faint odors that are only perceptible at a distance. He heaved a sigh of relief.
"I am a consummate ass, among other things," he muttered.
His mind reverted to Eva. How would he get through thetime until to-morrow? To-morrow there would be a sitting with Evelin. As he thought of her his face flushed with shame, and a feeling of dread came upon him. He would send her portrait to the dealer to-day—it was finished—then there would be no excuse for her staying. No, he would go away and lock the studio all day. What a fool he had been to allow himself to be fascinated by her dashing beauty. What a traitor he had been to make even a semblance of love to this bold, flashy woman of the world—a woman who, until recently, had not even commanded his respect.
"I have been a villain," he muttered, to himself; "a villain and a traitor, but I will be so no more. I will curb this savage nature within me. I will abstain from drink. I will be a new man."
He sealed his resolution with a kiss pressed upon the little, tinted letter, then placing it in an inner pocket he arranged the canvas of Eva Delorme on the easel before him and walked backward and forward in front of it thinking, pausing now and then to gaze long upon the beautiful, saintly features.
"It does not do her justice," he said, at last; "there is something about the lips and the expression that I have not caught. It is too minute; I must darken the ground; there is not enough relief—not enough depth."
Hastily removing his coat and the wide felt hat which he always wore on the street, he hung them on a rack in the adjoining room, and donning his velvet studio jacket, returned to the easel. Seizing his palette and brusheshe fell to work rapidly, and with the enthusiasm of one who is in love with his task.
As he dashed on the broad sweeps of color from his palette, the background gradually assumed the effect of having faded away, and the rare face before it to have become a thing of flesh and blood. It was a marvel of skill. He had never done anything like this before. He became so absorbed in his work that he forgot the passing hours. The background of the portrait complete, he began adding touches of light and shadow and color to the drapery, to the hair, to the perfect features. He felt that he had never painted half so well. It seemed to him that he was inspired. He remembered the story of the artist who had painted the portrait of his beloved, drawing the tints so truly fromher life, that when he had finished and turned to look at her with an exclamation of triumph on his lips, she was dead. It seemed to him at this moment that he was drawing his tints from her very life. That the intense workings of his brain must in some manner affect her own. He paused and his hand trembled. She was ill; what if she were to die! Pshaw! it was but a fable. He would paint the picture as truly, but only that the world might bow before the beauty of his mistress. He would exhibit it in Paris, and the multitude would worship the beautiful face that should win him a world-wide fame. Then he would take it away from the gaping throng and lay it, with the fame it brought him, at her feet.
The little clock on the mantel had long since chimed noon, and the hour hand had crept aroundthe circle nearly to five before he finally laid aside his brushes and palette, and stepped back to view his finished work.
"It is wonderful—wonderful," he said, aloud. "Oh, my precious darling!"
There was a sound behind him as of some one choking. He turned and stood face to face with Evelin March. She was very pale, and her eyes burned like two stars.
"Who is that woman?" she said, fiercely.
He knew that she had overheard him, but he endeavored to address her calmly. He felt the cowardliness of his nature rising, and he cursed himself inwardly.
"I—I was not expecting you to-day, Evelin," he stammered; "to-morrow, you know, is the day for your sitting."
She did not take her eyes from the portrait; she had gone veryclose to it and as she turned upon him to reply there was a mingled look of terror and ferocity in her face.
"No, it is quite evident that you did not expect me, and that you were too much absorbed to remember or care when my sitting was due. And now you will please to answer my question.Who is that woman?"
What would he not have given, at that moment, to have had courage to say, "She is to be my wife;" but the magnificent fury of the woman before him, and the recollection of the shameful words of love he had spoken to her, overwhelmed him.
"She is a—a Miss Delorme, I believe; a sitter of mine," he managed to say at last.
"You believe! You lie! You know who she is, and you love her! You love that nun-facedbaby! I heard your words. You believe—you"—
"Evelin, stop!"
"Don't speak to me, you traitor! 'Your precious darling.' Oh, I could kill her! Iwillkill her!"
He could not understand this wild fury, that seemed to be half inspired by a sort of terror. She had turned to the portrait again and was examining it, oblivious, for the moment, to all else. Then suddenly she turned upon him again with blazing eyes.
"I will kill her!" she hissed. "I could kill her withthat," and she pointed to the jeweled stiletto on the wall.
She was so magnificent in her rage that he could not help admiring her through it all. The love for him which had aroused this tempest was so fierce that he felt his savage blood beginning tothrob with an answering glow. He felt that once more he was about to be a traitor to all that was good within him. The ground was slipping from under his feet. The glamour of her voluptuous beauty was ruling his brain like the fumes of liquor. His eyes, too, were beginning to shine fiercely, but not with anger.
"Evelin," he said, "listen. You know I love you and have from the first. She is nothing to me. The words that you overheard were addressed only to the picture. It is my masterpiece. I was not thinking of the original." And down in his heart the small voice was whispering, "Coward—traitor—fool!"
But the hot blood of passion was sweeping through his veins, and he heeded it not. He put out his hand and laid it upon her arm.
"Don't touch me!" she said, angrily, but the expression in her eyes softened. He saw his advantage and followed it up.
"Evelin," he said, huskily, "I love you— I love you!" Again he laid his hand upon her and this time she allowed it to remain. They were standing near the curtained arch of the adjoining room. He parted back the heavy draperies, and gently drew her within.
The savage blood was rioting fiercely within him. He caught both her hands in his and drew her to his embrace. She hid her face upon his shoulder, and would not let him touch her lips. Other than this she made no further resistance. Half dragging, and half carrying her he approached a large divan that stood in a little alcove on the opposite side of the room. Suddenly he tookher bodily in his arms and they sank down upon it together. For a second, only; then, with a quick powerful effort she threw him backward and sprang to her feet, staring about her with a wild, startled look in her eyes.
Goetze, wholly at a loss to account for the suddenness and fierceness of the resistance, was for a moment stunned. As he recovered himself and made a movement toward her, she gave him one quick, piteous look—a look that recalled to him suddenly and strangely the beautiful, innocent girl whom he had wronged and forgotten—theface of Eva Delorme—then, as if seized with sudden panic she sped from the room, out through the dim studio and into the dusky hall-way beyond.
He heard the opening and closing of the outside door, and knewthat she was gone. Then the tide of reaction swept over him. The glamour of conquest had passed, and there remained only the shame, the treachery and the remorse.
With a curse of anguish he flung himself down upon the floor, and lay groveling with his face in the dust. The moments flew by unheeded. An hour passed. The electric lamps were turned on, and a white ray of light shot in through the half-curtained window. The little clock on the mantel chimed the hour.
The sound roused him. Starting to his feet he gazed stupidly about him for a moment as if undecided what to do, then seizing his hat from the wall rack he hurried out through the studio and the dark hall-way without pausing to remove his working jacket, or to lock the door.Out into the street where people were hurrying home, chattering and laughing, and glancing only for a second at the figure in the velvet studio coat and broad hat, wondering a little at the dark, intense face that flashed so swiftly past them toward the glare and confusion of the business center.
He did not know where he was going. He did not care. He was trying to get away from himself. He walked faster and faster; twice he started to run.
He was drawing nearer to the bustle of the city. Small shops were scattered along between the rows of brick dwellings, and at one corner the light of a saloon flared out upon the pavement. Entering, he called for brandy. The bar-keeper stared at him and set out a bottle and a glass. Twice he filled it to the brim anddrank it off with hardly a pause between. Then, throwing down a silver dollar, he hastened out without waiting for change.
The shops were getting thicker and larger. Dwelling-houses were fewer and more old fashioned. Here and there newsboys were crying the evening papers. Street-cars, filled with lights and faces, rolled swiftly by him and in front of him, jangling their bells. The buzz and whirl of the city was around him. He was drawing near to its great, throbbing heart.
Splendid shop windows threw a flood of light upon the pavement, making it like day. The shouts of the newsboys and street venders, the jangling of the car-bells, the rushing cabs and carriages, the hurrying crowds, the brilliant lights, the liquor in his brain, all whirled together and sent theblood racing through his arteries, tingling to the surface now and again in burning waves of misery and shame.
People paused for a moment to look at the strange figure, and hurried on. Everybody was hurrying—hurrying somewhere. He, too, was hurrying, as one pursued by furies; but where?
Suddenly, in front of an illuminated window, he paused; why, he did not know. There was nothing there to attract him. It was a place where they sold shoes. Numberless shoes were arranged for display, and in the midst of them a little white lamp-globe revolving by clock-work with two words painted on it in black letters:
He read the words over and over as the little globe came round,and round, and round. "Gentlemen's shoes—Gentlemen's shoes—Gentlemen's shoes." The thing fascinated him. It was such a funny little globe. It reminded him of a merry-go-round he had once ridden on as a child. He wondered how many times a day it spelled out the words, and if it kept on going, there in the dark, after the place was closed. Then he hurried on, but the little white globe and its black, flying letters were still before him. They had impressed their image upon his brain. More than once he repeated the words aloud. They seemed to have blended themselves into his whirling senses and become a monotonous undertone.
"Gentlemen's shoes—Gentlemen's shoes—Gentlemen's shoes."
Here and there he stopped at a saloon and drank. Hedrank deeply and the liquor was strong.
The lights were beginning to grow fewer. He had turned in his walk, and was leaving the whirl and glare behind him. He did not know what direction he had taken. He only knew that he was going, going, going, in a mad effort to get away from himself.
The people that passed him he did not see. He saw only the white face of Eva Delorme, and that piteous look in the eyes of the other, that had, in one instant, revived within him, and with ten-fold vigor, all the strange, torturing suspicions he had once felt regarding these two mysterious lives. The faces that turned to look at him, he did not notice; he saw only these two, and mingled with them, and whirling round, and round, and round, thelittle white globe with its black letters, "Gentlemen's shoes—Gentlemen's shoes—Gentlemen's shoes."
After a long time he noticed that he was passing a small suburban railway station. There was a bustle of preparation as though a train was expected to arrive. He crossed the shining steel tracks and entered. A number of people were inside, chattering, laughing and waiting. Waiting to go somewhere. Everybody was going somewhere—everybody but him. Suddenly a group in one corner attracted him as had the lighted window and the revolving globe.
A hatchet-faced woman, wearing a faded straw hat of antique pattern, a cloak to match, and a soiled and largely plaided dress, was vainly endeavoring to still the cries of a miserable babeswaddled in an assortment of dirty garments.
Two children, of ages evidently beginning at prompt and regular intervals from the one in her arms, extended from her at right-angles on the bench, their legs straddled about with a childish disregard of modesty. They were asleep—at least one of them was, and the other was equally silent.
By and by, the woman arose and walked the floor with the babe. At this, the child who was not asleep arose also and stared at its mother with wide, round eyes. Then, as she approached it and turned in her march, it began to follow her, keeping close behind and in step.
The other slept on unconsciously. The lamps flared and flickered; the babe, partially soothed, sobbed and moaned, and the squalid pair marched on.
Begotten in bliss—brought forth in suffering—retired in privation.
Suddenly there is a prolonged, shrill shriek in the night, a trampling of many feet, a shouting of discordant voices, and the midnight train is snorting at the platform.
Hastily the mother gathers up the sleeping child, and bidding the other cling close to her skirts, hurries out into the night, past the fiery-eyed Polyphemus, on toward the coaches behind.
The people that are going somewhere jostle against her in their haste to get into the coaches and secure seats. Mechanically the artist follows. Everybody is going somewhere; he will go, too.
The monster ahead begins to puff and grunt, and the bell that is fastened to its back, to ring wildly.
The men who are loading baggage shout and swear and hurl coarse jokes at each other, and the midnight train begins to move. The bell still clangs frantically, the demon puffs and grunts faster and faster, and the light from its one fearful eye penetrates farther and farther into the darkness ahead.
Faster, and faster, and faster—the sound of the wheels falling into a regular measure, until it has become a weird, rhythmical monotone.
"Gentlemen's shoes—Gentlemen's shoes—Gentlemen's shoes."
Then there is a momentary flare of light, a final, blood-curdling scream, and the one-eyed demon—the faded and soiled woman—the sobbing baby—the sleeping child—the marching child with the big, round eyes—the people who are going somewhere,and the artist who is going nowhere, are on their way.
He has taken a seat facing the faded woman, and is unconsciously studying her face. She is still hushing the babe to rest. On one side the sleeper is huddled up against her. On the other, next to the window and resting upon its knees, the child with the big, round eyes stares out into the darkness.
The coach is warm. The heat and the strong liquor are beginning to tell on him. The face before him begins to mingle with all sorts of impossible fancies. The roar of the flying train is in his ears, but it seems the roar of some mighty sea that is about to overwhelm him. The conductor, coming through, shakes his arm to rouse him.
"Tickets!"
"Oh, yes!"—he forgot. Hethrusts a bill into the conductor's hand. "Keep the change, I will ride it out."
The drowsiness is again stealing upon him. He still sees the wretched face before him and is studying it; but always between them are those other faces—the face of Eva Delorme and of Evelin March—and the piteous, frightened look that rests now upon one, now upon the other,—and now the two are melting—melting into one, like theblending outlines of a dissolving view—and both fade out into the little white globe with its whirling black words, that the hum of the train flying through the night keeps repeating over, and over, and over,—"Gentlemen's shoes—Gentlemen's shoes—Gentlemen's shoes."
The sky was beginning to get gray with morning when the night express, more than a hundred and fifty miles from its starting point, rushed into a little station and halted a moment for water, panting and fretting to be on its way. A figure stepped from it to the platform, staggering a little as from the motion of the train. It was a young man. His eyes were bloodshot, his face stained with the grime of travel. His soft felt hat and his short, velvet coat were covered with cinders and dust. One would hardly have recognized the artist, Julian Goetze.
The station agent stood a fewfeet away with a lantern. He looked up somewhat astonished as this odd figure approached him. "Some drunken showman," he thought.
The man came closer, as if to speak to him.
"How far back to Saint Louis?" he asked, anxiously.
"One hundred and fifty-three miles."
"When can I get a train?"
"At eleven-thirty, if it's on time."
"Is it usually on time?"
"Hardly ever; four hours late yesterday."
"Good God! Is there no other train?"
"There's a cattle train lying up there on the switch now. Pulls out soon as this one leaves."
"And what time will that reach Saint Louis?"
"No telling, depends uponwhat luck it has; possibly by four or five o'clock."
The artist did not wait to hear more. Anything was better than remaining here on an uncertainty. He sped away up the track to where lay the long line of waiting cars.
He had been awakened by the stopping of the train, and a realization of affairs had flashed over him like lightning. He was far away from Saint Louis, and at six o'clock that night he had an appointment with Eva Delorme.
The effects of his self-abasement and the strong liquor had worn away. The fever and the delirium of last night were as a bad dream. He would hasten back to Eva. He had sinned—fallen almost to the lowest depth—but it was over now. He would see Evelin March no more. If Eva accepted him they would go awayat once. Oh, if kind Providence would but help him to reach the appointment in time!
The conductor whom he asked, noting his anxiety, assured him that it was quite probable they would reach the city by five o'clock.
It was growing light rather slowly. The sky was overcast with clouds, and the air had the feeling of a storm. It seemed to Julian that the train crept along like a farm wagon. For a long time he looked out at the gray monotonous landscape, then he lay down on the cushioned benches of the caboose and tried to sleep. Now and then he would doze a little, but his mind was too full of anxiety and impatience to obtain rest. Terrifying dreams forced themselves upon him, and he awoke often, sick and frightened.
And so through that drearyautumn day the heavy train rumbled along across the wide stretch of country that divided him from that which fate was at that moment busily preparing—an experience as strange, as weird, as terribly fantastic as was ever accorded to human being before.
The little Swiss cottage of Julian Goetze was very silent that day. All through the forenoon no one entered, although the street door was unlocked and the studio door was open. As the afternoon wore away, the clouds and smoke that hung heavily over the city seemed to settle lower and lower, until within the narrow hall-way it was almost dark.
Just after the clock on the mantel of the inner room had chimed three, a cloaked figure passed through the hall and entered the studio. It was Evelin March. Her eye fell upon theportrait of Eva Delorme still resting upon the easel, and she glanced about hastily for the artist. He was not there. For some reason she did not remove her wrap, but stood still, listening. A wagon rattled by outside, but within all was silent.
"Paul!" she called, softly.
There was no reply.
"He has stepped out for a moment," she thought; "he will be back presently."
She approached the face on the easel, cautiously, as though it were alive.
"I wonder who she is," she muttered; "I have seen her somewhere before—or I have dreamed it. He said it was his masterpiece. I hate her!"
She seated herself before the picture, studying it silently. Little by little a fear invaded her bosom—a strange fear, such asshe had never known before. A fear of this portrait, of the lonely room, of the weapons upon the wall. It seemed to her that something horrible was about to happen.
She started up and began to pace up and down the room to drive away this feeling. Why did the artist not come? She parted back the draperies and looked into the room beyond. He could not have gone far; his coat was hanging upon the rack, and his velvet studio jacket was gone. Entering, she approached the coat and put her hand against it in a sort of caress.
How she loved him! She seemed to have forgotten or forgiven the offered insult of yesterday. Turning back the garment she touched her lips to the silk lining where it had covered his heart. As she did so shenoticed the tinted edge of a narrow envelope in the inner pocket. In an instant she was seized with a passion of curiosity. All her jealousy and suspicions of the sweet-faced girl in gray came rushing back. She listened at the curtained arch for a moment, but there was no sound of approaching footsteps; then, her eyes flashing, and her cheeks flaming guiltily, she snatched the delicate missive from its concealment, and with trembling hands tore it from its covering. In another instant her suspicions were verified. The woman reading seemed suddenly to have become deranged.
"Coward!—liar!—cur!" she screamed.
She tore the letter in halves, crumpled it in her hands, and flung it upon the floor. Then suddenly becoming calm she gatheredup the pieces hastily and concealed them in her bosom. A look of peculiar cunning had come into her eyes.
"So he is going to meet her," she muttered, savagely; "but they will not meet alone. I, too, will go to No. 74 West L—— Street, east side." Then she hesitated. "Perhaps I would not be admitted," she thought.
Plans for overcoming this obstacle flashed through her brain like lightning. She seized upon what appeared to her the most feasible.
"If I will counterfeit her," she said, feverishly; "I will disguise myself."
She hurried back into the studio and stood for a moment before the easel. Yes, yes; she could do it. Her figure was much the same, dress gray and plain, hair low upon the forehead—a veil would make it complete.
"Oh," she muttered, "how I hate your baby face! Look! I will kill you, you fool—you fool!"
Again that sickening, fascinating terror of this unknown woman came upon her. Hastily turning from the portrait she listened a second for the artist's step. As she did so her eye caught the weapons on the wall. Without a moment's hesitation she plucked the jewel-hilted stiletto from its place, and concealing it beneath her cloak hurried from the house.
An hour later the artist burst into the studio. His bloodshot eyes, and face blackened with travel, made him almost unrecognizable. Hurrying through to his room beyond he glanced eagerly at the clock. It was on the stroke of five.
"Just time to make myselfpresentable and reach the place by six," he thought.
Then, turning, he surveyed himself in a mirror.
"Good heavens, what a spectacle I am! People must have thought I was a maniac—and they were not far from wrong—but I am all right now. I am going to Eva and confess my villainy, and ask her forgiveness. I will swear my faith to her. She will forgive me—she must forgive me. And as for Evelin, all is over with her after what passed last night. Last night! was it only last night? It seemed an age."
He made a quick motion as if to drive away an unpleasant memory, then throwing off his outer garments he opened the door of a little dressing-room.
"I will bathe, and confess, and be born again," he said, with a little laugh.
Twenty minutes afterward he emerged a new man in reality—as far as outward appearances were concerned. Cleanly shaven and scrupulously attired, no one would have recognized in him the dusty, wild-looking figure of an hour before. He glanced at the clock.
"Yes—I have plenty of time," he thought. "No. 74 West L——Street, east side; I will look at her letter again to make sure. Bless her sweet face! I can hardly wait until I see it again. If she only is not ill, but—good God, it is gone!"
He had looked in the breast pocket of his street coat, that still hung on the rack; it was empty. He stood holding the coat, with a puzzled expression on his face, trying to think.
"I know I put it in that pocket—I recollect it distinctly," hesaid, aloud; "perhaps it fell out when I took off my coat."
He looked hastily about the floor, then hurried out into the studio, searching rapidly and carefully. His face grew more and more troubled. Could anyone have come in during his absence and picked it up? Perhaps Harry had been here; if so, it was safe. As he stood there reflecting, trying to solve the mystery, he was looking directly at the weapons upon the wall. All at once he noticed that there was something different about their arrangement. Something was missing. It was the dagger! Then it all came to him. "Evelin!" he shouted. "Good God!"
He had wasted valuable time searching for the letter. He could hardly reach the place of appointment by six unless he could catch some kind of a vehicle.
"My God—my God! she will kill her—she will kill her! and all through my treachery."
He had fled from the house and was now speeding wildly westward. No cab was in sight and he could not wait to find one.
"She will kill her—she will kill her!" he groaned, over and over. "Oh, my God—my God!"
At a quarter before six, a woman ascended the marble steps of the old mansion at No. 74 West L—— Street, east side. She wore a plain dress of silver-gray material, a rich Persian shawl, a neat walking hat, her face thickly veiled. Reaching the door, she laid her gloved hand on the knob, then hesitated, as if undecided whether to enter at once or ring.
The heavy clouds hung oppressively low, and it was already dusk. A few flakes of snow were falling, but it was not cold.
All at once the woman removed her hand from the door, slipped off her shawl and threw it across her arm. As she did so something glittered bright, which she hastily concealed beneath the shawl. As she stood now she was the exact counterpart of Eva Delorme. Then without further hesitation she laid hold of and turned the heavy knob of the massive black door. It yielded noiselessly, and she entered, closing it as noiselessly behind her.
Within all was dark. A faint ray of light crept in through the transom, penetrating a few feet into the blackness. She stood almost against the door, listening and hardly breathing. All was silent. She had expected the other to be there before her, waiting for his coming. She put out her hand and felt about her. She touched a chair at her left and softly laid her shawl upon it, keeping firm hold upon the keen weapon she had carried beneath it. She listened again; still nosound. She was growing impatient. She took a few steps forward, keeping one hand extended in front of her to avoid collision. Then she turned and retraced her steps.
She had been very cool, thus far, but she was losing control of herself. Why did she not come? She had said in her letter that she was ill—pshaw! it was but a trick to arouse his sympathy. She must come—she must come!
She paced back and forth in the small space which she had explored and found free from obstruction. Three steps forward and turn—three steps back and turn; pausing each time to hold her breath and listen, while the fingers of her left hand involuntarily crept down and pressed against the keen point of the dagger until it pierced through her glove and entered the tender flesh.
Suddenly a white ray of light shot through the transom above her, falling at an angle against a projection in the wall at her left, and dimly illuminating the entire place. It was six o'clock, and the large arc light just outside was turned on. Then, as she reached the door and whirled quickly in her march, she saw her for whom she waited standing at the extreme farther end of the long hall. Between them was what appeared to be a narrow and ornamented archway.
She could dimly distinguish the figure clad in gray. The face, like her own, was veiled. She noticed with quick satisfaction that her disguise was perfect—the counterpart was exact even to the smallest detail.
Without hesitation, and concealing the dagger in the folds of her dress, she advanced quicklyand silently toward her rival, who, somewhat to her surprise, instead of fleeing or crying out, also advanced. She was going to try strength with her.
"I will kill her with a blow," she muttered.
They were now within a few feet of each other—the ornamented arch exactly between them. Suddenly Evelin March snatched the dagger from its concealment and raised it aloft to strike. As she did so her rival made precisely the same movement, and something glittered in her hand also. Both took a quick, forward step, and each, at the same instant, struck fiercely with a swinging, downward blow.
A hissing metallic report, a low moan and the sound of a falling body—then silence.
A moment later the hall door burst open for a second time, andin 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 shadowsof 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.