I approached it, to take a last look upon the woman whose end had been so terrible, at the same time wondering what evidence the police had secured in those letters found upon her.
“God!” I cried, when one of the men with a quick movement, and watching my face the while, drew away the sheet and revealed the white dead countenance.
I stood glaring at it, as one transfixed.
“Ah!” exclaimed the delegato in satisfaction. “It is a test that few can withstand. You recognise her as your victim—good!”
I let the fellow condemn me. I allowed him to form what theory he liked, for I was far too surprised and amazed to protest.
The truth was absolutely incredible. At first I could not believe my own eyes.
The dead woman was not Marigold, but another—Marie Lejeune!