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.