Yes, it was Opal, disguised as June, in the gray dress and hat and scarf, with black pearls and emeralds all copied from the portrait—and the haunting fragrance of roses that had been June's.
The likeness was enough to deceive June's nearest and dearest in that dimmest of dim lights which was like the ghost of a light, veiled with all those chiffon scarves. But with the room bright as day, all resemblance, except in clothes and wig and height, vanished at a glance.
The woman caught in her cruel fraud was a pitiable sight, yet I had no pity for her then. Staring at the whitened face, framed in dishevelled, mouse-brown hair, the long upper lip painted red in a high Cupid's bow to resemble June's lovely mouth, I was sick with disgust. As at last she yielded in despair to Jim's fierce clutch, and dropped sobbing on the sofa, I felt I could have struck her. But she had no thought for me nor for any of us—not even for Jim, who had ruined the game, nor for Miss Reardon, who must have sold her to him at a price; for no one at all except Robert Lorillard.
When she'd given up hope of escape, and lay panting, exhausted, flung feebly across the sofa, she looked up at Robert.
"I loved you," she wept. "That's why I did it; I couldn't let you go to another woman. I thought I saw a way to keep you always near me—almost as if you were mine. You can't hate a woman who loves you like that!"
Robert did not answer. I think he was half dazed. He stood staring at her, frozen still like the statue of a man. I was frightened for him. He had endured too much. Joyce couldn't go to him yet, though he would be hers—all hers, for ever—bye and bye—but I could go, as a friend.
I laid my hand on his arm, and spoke his name softly.
"Robert, I always felt there was fraud," I said. "Now, thank Heaven, we know the truth before it's too late for you to be happy, as June herself would want you to be happy, if she knew. She wasn't cruel—the real June. She wasn't like this false one at heart. Go, now, I beg, and take Joyce home to my flat—she's almost fainting. You must look after her. I will stay here. Jim Courtenaye'll watch over me—and later we'll bring you explanations of everything."
So I got them both away. And when they were gone the whole story was dragged from Opal. Jim forced her to confess; and with Robert out of sight—lost for ever to the wretched woman—the task wasn't difficult. You see, Miss Reardon had sold her beforehand. Jim doesn't care what price he pays when he wants a thing!
First of all, he'd taken a house that was to let furnished, near Opal's. She didn't know him from Adam, but he had her description. He followed her several times, and saw her go to the Savoy; even saw her go to Miss Reardon's rooms. Then, to Miss Reardon he presented himself, en surprise, and pretended to know five times as much as he did know; in fact, as much as he suspected. By this trick he broke down her guard; and before she had time to build it up again, flung a bribe of two thousand pounds—ten thousand dollars—at her head. She couldn't resist, and eventually told him everything.