A great horror grew upon her as if, indeed, they were about to strike her dead. She had been caught in a horrible trap—a pit of destruction yawned beneath her feet—in a moment she would be hurled down, down, down, into fathomless darkness and despair.
Mrs. Gordon drew nearer and nearer. There was a tender smile on the fair, delicate face, and the blue eyes looked straight into Laurel's own for an instant—only an instant, for then she started backward, and her cry of dismay and wonder pealed on the impostor's ears like the knell of doom.
"Beatrix! Oh, my God, it is not Beatrix! What does this mean?"
"It is not Beatrix!" Mr. Gordon echoed, blankly.
And for a moment there reigned a terrible silence in the room.
St. Leon Le Roy looked down at his wife. She was clinging to his arm with the desperation of despair. Her face was pale as death, and convulsed with fear. Her wide, frightened, dark eyes stared up straight into his, with a hunted look in their somber depth that pierced his heart.
"Beatrix, what do they mean?" he cried. "Have they all gone mad?"
Her white lips tried to syllable the word "mad," but it died upon them in a straining gasp.
Mr. Gordon came slowly forward, a dazed expression on his features.
"Mr. Le Roy, there must be some mistake," he said. "This lady is not your wife?"