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 the portrait 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 as she 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 she noticed 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.