The Mystery of the Hasty Arrow | Page 6

Mr. Roberts stood in one of
the windows, and not far from him a man in the museum uniform.
At the authoritative advance of the old detective, the woman, whose
eye he had caught, attempted to struggle to her feet, but desisted after a
moment of hopeless effort, and sank back in her chair. There was no
pretense in this. Though gifted with a strong frame, emotion had so
weakened her that she was simply unable to stand. Quite convinced of
this, and affected in spite of himself by her look of lofty patience, Mr.
Gryce prefaced his questions with an apology--quite an unusual
proceeding for him.
Whether or no she heard it, he could not tell; but she was quite ready to
answer when he asked her name and then her place of
residence--saying in response to the latter query:

"I live at the Calderon, a family hotel in Sixty-seventh Street. My
name"--here she paused for a second to moisten her lips--"is
Taylor--Ermentrude Taylor.... Nothing else," she speedily added in a
tone which drew every eye her way. Then more evenly: "You will find
the name on the hotel's books."
"Wife or widow?"
"Widow."
What a voice! how it reached every heart, waking strange sympathies
there! As the word fell, not a person in the room but stirred uneasily.
Even she herself started at its sound; and moved, perhaps, by the depth
of silence which followed, she added in suppressed tones:
"A widow within the hour. That's why you see me still in colors, but
crushed as you behold--killed! killed!"
That settled it. There was no mistaking her condition after an
expression of this kind. The Curator and Mr. Gryce exchanged glances,
and Mr. Roberts, stepping from his corner, betrayed the effect which
her words had produced on him, by whispering in the detective's ear:
"What you need is an alienist."
Had she heard? It would seem so from the quick way she roused and
exclaimed with indignant emphasis:
"You do not understand me! I see that I must drink my bitter cup to the
dregs. This is what I mean: My husband was living this morning--living
up to the hour when the clock in this building struck twelve. I knew it
from the joyous hopes with which my breast was filled. But with the
stroke of noon the blow fell. I was bending above the poor child who
had fallen so suddenly at my feet, when the vision came, and I saw him
gazing at me from a distance so remote--across a desert so
immeasurable--that nothing but death could create such a removal or
make of him the ghastly silhouette I saw. He is dead. At that moment I
felt his soul pass; and so I say that I am a widow."

Ravings? No, the calm certainty of her tone, the grief, touching depths
so profound it had no need of words, showed the confidence she felt in
the warning she believed herself to have received. Though probably not
a single person present put any faith in occultism in any of its forms,
there was a general movement of sympathy which led Mr. Gryce to
pass the matter by without any attempt at controversy, and return to the
question in hand. With a decided modification of manner, he therefore
asked her to relate how she came to be kneeling over the injured girl
with her hand upon the arrow.
"Let me have a moment in which to recover myself," she prayed,
covering her eyes with her hand. Then, while all waited, she gave a low
cry, "I suffer; I suffer!" and leaped to her feet, only to sink back again
inert and powerless. But only for an instant: with that one burst of
extreme feeling she recovered her self-control, answering with apparent
calmness the detective's question:
"I was passing through the gallery as any other visitor might, when a
young lady rushed by me--stopped short--threw up her arms and fell
backward to the floor, pierced to the heart by an arrow. In a moment I
was on my knees at her side with hand outstretched to withdraw this
dreadful arrow. But I was afraid--I had heard that this sometimes
causes death, and while I was hesitating, that vision came, engulfing
everything. I could think of nothing else."
She was near collapsing again; but being a woman of great nerve, she
fought her weakness and waited patiently for the next question. It was
different, without doubt, from any she had expected.
"Then you positively deny any active connection with the strange death
of this young girl?"
A pause, as if to take in what he meant. Then slowly, impressively,
came the answer:
"I do."
"Did you see the person who shot the arrow?"

"No."
"From what direction would it have had to