The detective followed, half suspicious, half uneasy. The room was hung with white--everywhere were piles, masses of red flowers. On the white-hung bed lay more blood-red blossoms. Lord Vansittart went up to it with bowed head, and folding back the sheet that was scattered with the crimson blooms, showed a beautiful waxen face surrounded by close-woven gleaming hair: waxen hands folded meekly on the breast.
"Good God! Dead!" The detective recognized her--he had no doubt as to the fact--but he felt it with a shock.
"No," said Lord Vansittart, grimly, turning to him with a look which he afterwards confided to his wife was the worst experience of his hard-working and disillusionary existence. "Alive! Men may torture and kill our bodies, man, but who can kill the soul?"
THE END.
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Novels by Guy Boothby.
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