It was no wonder that the fiends’ laugh echoed no longer through the dark, grim halls of Suicide Place, since its awful Moloch had claimed the sacrifice of the sixth decade.

Beresford and his sister stood as if turned to stone upon the threshold, gazing in upon that awful sight, on which the sun’s last rays flickered dismally, as if in pity.

No wonder Otho and Maybelle had not returned last night! No wonder their disappearance remained so deep a mystery! They lay here dead in that awful house where scarcely a human foot dared penetrate.

Otho’s stiffened hand lay along the carpet, still grasping the weapon with which he had sent a bullet through his heart.

His handsome features, white as marble by contrast with his jetty hair and mustache, showed ghastly now, with the fallen lower jaw and the half-open dark eyes, that held frozen in their unseeing upward gaze an expression of hate, as if they had looked last on some abhorred sight.

It was a tragedy to shake the strongest nerves, and they turned with relief toward Maybelle, who looked more natural, her eyes and lips closed, only her stillness and corpse-like pallor betraying that death was there. Above her heart was a clot of dried blood that had flowed from a dagger-thrust given by her own hand, for just beneath her touch lay the shining steel.

Alva and St. George contemplated the awful sight in horror too deep for words. With their arms about each other, they gazed and gazed, shuddering and trembling with pity, for their generous hearts forgot the wrong-doing of the pair in sympathy for the strange fate that had overtaken them.

At last rousing himself to the exigencies of the moment, Beresford sighed heavily and said:

“We must go and tell the driver of this awful discovery, and send him back to Mount Vernon with the news.”

They went to the driver, who was so astounded he could hardly credit the story.

Curiosity conquered his dread of Suicide Place for once, and he followed them into the gloomy portals to gaze with awe on the sickening sight of the two suicides, then willingly agreed to drive back into town to spread the news and summon the coroner.

Alva insisted on remaining with her brother.

“We have not found Floy yet, you know,” she said.

“Shall we resume our search?” he asked.

“It would be better than remaining in this room,” she shuddered, and was turning away, when her pitying gaze, that had rested on Maybelle’s ghastly face, suddenly returned to it in amazement.

“Look—look!” she cried, wildly. “Her eyelids moved! See, her breast heaves! She is not dead! She revives!”

St. George turned back at his sister’s words and saw that they were true.

Maybelle was reviving.

Her dark eyes opened wide and rested imploringly on their faces.

“Do not leave me!” she faltered.

They hurried to her side, and Alva lifted the heavy head on her arm while Beresford poured a few drops of wine between her lips from a flask he had brought with other restoratives in a tiny case.

Maybelle moaned faintly:

“Poor Otho, he is quite dead, is he not? His courage did not fail—like mine—at the last.”

Beresford drew a shawl over the dead face reverently, hiding it from her sight, and she added:

“When the cold steel pierced my flesh it pained me so I could not drive it home to my heart. It fell from my hand and I fainted. But—but—I shall die all the same, shall I not?” anxiously.