Lady Helen slowly advanced. At the door she paused a moment to nerve
herself for what she must see; then she turned the handle and went in.

It was one of the stateliest rooms in the house--all white and gold,
and dimly lit now by wax tapers. Lying on one of the white velvet
sofas she saw a rigid figure, over which a white covering was drawn;
but the golden hair and the fair, marble face gleaming in the
waxlights as beautiful as ever in life.

He sat beside his dead--almost as motionless, almost as cold, almost
as white. He had loved her with a love that was akin to idolatrous--he
had grudged that the eye of man should rest on his treasure--and now
he sat beside her--dead.

If he heard the door open, he neither moved nor stirred. He never once
looked up as his aunt came forward; his eyes were riveted upon that
ineffably calm face with a vacant, sightless sort of stare that
chilled her blood.

"Victor!" she cried out, in a frightened voice; "Victor speak to me.
For pity's sake, don't look like that?"

The dull, blinded eyes looked up at her, full of infinite, unutterable
despair.

"She is dead," he said, in a slow, dragging sort of voice--"dead!
And last night I left her well and happy--left her to be
murdered--to--be--murdered."

The slow words fell heavily from his lips--his eyes went back to her