The Mystery of the Hasty Arrow | Page 5

two attendants."
With a thoughtful air Mr. Gryce turned in the direction of the few
persons he could see huddled together around one of the central statues.
"Where are the others?" he asked.
"Upstairs--in and about the place where the poor child lies."
"They must be got out of there. Sweetwater!"
The young man who had entered with him was at his side in an instant.
"Clear the galleries. Then take down the name and address of every
person in the building."
"Yes, sir."
Before the last word had left his lips, the busy fellow was halfway up
the marble steps. "Lightning," some of his pals called him, perhaps
because he was as noiseless as he was quick. Meanwhile the senior
detective had drawn the Curator to one side.
"We'll take a look at these people as they come down. I have been said
to be able to spot a witness with my eyes shut. Let's see what I can do
with my eyes open."
"Young and old, rich and poor," murmured the Curator as some dozen
persons appeared at the top of the staircase.
"Yes," sighed the detective, noting each one carefully as he or she filed
down, "we sha'n't make much out of this experiment. Not one of them
avoids our looks. Emotion enough, but not of the right sort. Well, we'll
leave them to Sweetwater. Our business is above."

The Curator offered his arm. The old man made a move to take it--then
drew himself up with an air of quiet confidence.
"Many thanks," said he, "but I can go alone. Rheumatism is my trouble,
but these mild days loosen its grip upon my poor old muscles." He did
not say that the prospect of an interesting inquiry had much the same
effect, but the Curator suspected it, possibly because he was feeling just
a little bit spry himself.
Steeled as such experienced officers necessarily are to death in all its
phases, it was with no common emotion that the aged detective entered
the presence of the dead girl and took his first look at this latest victim
of mental or moral aberration. So young! so innocent! so fair! A
schoolgirl, or little more, of a class certainly above the average,
whether judged from the contour of her features or the niceties of her
dress. With no evidences of great wealth about her, there was yet
something in the cut of her garments and the careful attention to each
detail which bespoke not only natural but cultivated taste. On her breast
just above the spot where the cruel dart had entered, a fresh and
blooming nosegay still exhaled its perfume--a tragic detail accentuating
the pathos of a death so sudden that the joy with which she had pinned
on this simple adornment seemed to linger about her yet.
The detective, with no words for this touching spectacle, stretched out
his hand and with a reverent and fatherly touch pressed down the lids
over the unseeing eyes. This office done to the innocent dead, he asked
if anything had been found to establish the young girl's identity.
"Surely," he observed, "she was not without a purse or handbag. All
young ladies carry them."
For answer the officer on guard thrust his hand into one of his
capacious pockets, and drawing out a neat little bag of knitted beads,
passed it over to the detective with the laconic remark:
"Nothing doing."
And so it proved. It held only a pocket handkerchief--embroidered but

without a monogram--and a memorandum-book without an entry.
"A blind alley, if ever there was one," muttered Mr. Gryce; and
ordering the policeman to replace the bag as nearly as possible on the
spot from which it had been taken, he proceeded with the Curator to
Room B.
Prepared to encounter a woman of disordered mind, the appearance
presented by Mrs. Taylor at his entrance greatly astonished Mr. Gryce.
There was a calmness in her attitude which one would scarcely expect
to see in a woman whom mania had just driven into crime. Surely
lunacy does not show such self-restraint; nor does lunacy awaken any
such feelings of awe as followed a prolonged scrutiny of her set but
determined features. Only grief of the most intense and sacred character
could account for the aspect she presented, and as the man to whom the
tragedies of life were of daily occurrence took in this mystery with all
its incongruities, he realized, not without a sense of professional
pleasure, no doubt, that he had before him an affair calling for the
old-time judgment which, for forty or more years, had made his record
famous in the police annals of the metropolis.
She was seated with no one near her but a young lady whom
sympathetic interest had drawn to her side.