He sprang to his feet and advanced upon her, stepping across the body of his son in his reckless haste. For many seconds they stood with their faces close together, he staring wildly, she with a dull look of agony in her eyes, but unflinching. What he saw caused an icy chill to sweep through his tense body and a sickness to enter his soul. He shrank back.
“Who—who are you?” he cried out in sudden terror. He felt the presence of Matilde. He could have stretched out his hand and touched her, so real, so vivid was the belief that she was actually there before him. “Matilde was here—I saw her, I saw her. And—and now it is you! She is still here. I can feel her hand touching mine—I can feel—no, no! It is gone—it—has passed. She has left me again. I—I———”
The cold, lifeless voice of Yvonne was speaking to him, huskier than ever before.
“Matilde has been here. She has always been with her son. She is always near you, James Brood.”
“What—are—you—saying?” he gasped.
She turned wearily away and pointed to the weapon on the table.
“Who is to use it—you or I?”
He opened his mouth, but uttered no sound. His power of speech was gone.
She went on in a deadly monotone.
“You intended the bullet for me. It is not too late. Kill me, if you will. I give you the first chance—take it, for if you do not I shall take mine.”