The Mystery of the Hasty Arrow | Page 6

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 come to strike her as it did?"
"From the opposite balcony."
"Did you see anyone there?"
"No."
"But you heard the arrow?"
"Heard?"
"An arrow shot from a bow makes a whizzing sound as it flies. Didn't you hear that?"
"I don't know." She looked troubled and uncertain. "I don't remember. I was expecting no such thing--I was not prepared. The sight of an arrow--a killing arrow--in that innocent breast overcame me with inexpressible grief and horror. If the vision of my husband had not followed, I might remember more. As it is, I have told all I can. Won't you excuse me? I should like to go. I am not fit to remain. I want to return home--to hear from my husband--to learn by letter or telegram whether he is indeed dead."
Mr. Gryce had let her finish. An inquiry so unofficial might easily await the moods of such a witness. Not till the last word had been followed by what some there afterward called a hungry silence, did he make use of his prerogative to say:
"I shall be pleased to release you and will do so just as soon as I can.