"At any rate," the other continued, "Elaine tonight looked into the mirror. By some accident—an accident Vance had counted on taking place eventually, of course—, she happened to get exactly the right angle. She saw her ancestor. Her mind flashed back through time, into that other Elaine Duchard's brain—"
And then, all at once, the old man's iron will cracked.
"She is trapped!" he cried in a voice like the wail of a north wind through the pines. "She is trapped in the body of that first Elaine Duchard, while her own lies here, a useless, unconscious husk! She will die, as our ancestor died—"
"What do you mean? How did the first Elaine Duchard die?" Mark was on his feet, fists clenched.
Professor Duchard sat slumped forward, his face buried in his hands, white hair awry.
"She was a tragic figure," he mumbled. "You saw her picture. You know how beautiful she was.
"She came from a minor family of the French nobility, but she loved a young Jacobin—a man such as those who, a few years later, overthrew the monarchy and founded the French republic.
"She had another suitor, however. A Baron Morriere. When he learned that she was going to marry another, he kidnapped her the night before her wedding. Her lover was present at the time, and was nearly killed trying to protect her. Later he returned to help her escape from the Chateau Morriere. They succeeded in getting away.
"But the baron's guards tracked them down and murdered them both two days later. And Gustav Jerbette gained his first renown—he was then but a young student—when he immortalized them by painting his famous picture, 'Elaine Duchard's Escape'."
"And now Elaine—"