Only a moment before Gwen had felt a creepy, sickening sensation stealing over her as the result of an ill-defined and apparently causeless dread.Now an actual, imminent, and fearful peril confronted her.Under such circumstances most women would have fainted, and, indeed, if Gwen had herself been asked how she would have acted under such a supreme test, she would have prophesied the same maidenly course as her own, yet, in the real exigency - how little do we know of ourselves, save what actual experience has taught us! - this is precisely what she did not do.When the horrible apparition first rose in her very face, as it were, a momentary weakness caught her and she clung to the sash for support.Then the wonderful fire of the malignant eyes, green, serpentine, opalescent, with the wave-like flux of a glowworm's light seen under a glass, riveted her attention.She had ceased to tremble.Our fear of death varies with our desire for life.Dulled by a great grief, she did not so very much care what became of her.The future's burden was heavy, and if it were necessary she now put it down, there would still be a sense of relief.As this thought passed like a shadow over her consciousness she felt herself irresistibly attracted to the awful face before her.Her assailant's gaze seemed to have wound itself about her own till she could not disentangle it.She was dimly conscious that she was falling under a spell and summoned all her remaining strength to break it.Quick as the uncoiling of a released spring, and without the slightest movement of warning, she threw her entire weight upon the sash in a last endeavour toclose the window, but the man's upraised arm held both her weight and it, as if its muscles had been rods of steel.Gwen saw a long knife in his free hand, - saw the light shimmer along its blade, saw him raise it aloft to plunge it into her bosom, yet made no movement to withdraw beyond his reach and uttered no cry for help.It seemed to her that all this was happening to another and that she herself was only a fascinated spectator.She was wondering whether or not the victim would try to defend herself when the knife began its descent.It seemed ages in its downward passage, - so long, indeed, that it gave her time to think of most of the main experiences of her life.At last it paused irresolutely within an inch of her bosom.She wondered that the victim made no attempt to escape, uttered no cry for help.Suddenly she felt something whirling and buzzing in her brain, while a wild fluttering filled both her ears; then the swirling, fluttering torment rose in a swift and awful crescendo which seemed to involve all creation in its vortex; then a pang like a lightning-thrust and a crash like the thunder that goes with it, and she saw a tall man striding rapidly from the window.She was still sure it was no personal concern of hers, yet an idle curiosity noted his great height, his dark, mulatto-like skin, and a slight halt in his walk as he passed through a narrow beam of light and off into the engulfing darkness.
It was many minutes before Gwen regained any considerable command of her faculties, and she afterwards told me that she was even then more than half inclined to consider the whole thing as a weird dream of an overwrought mind.At length, however, she realised that she had had an actual experience, and that it was of sufficient importance to make it known at once.She accordingly hastened to lay the whole matter before me, and I, in my turn, notified the police, who, at once instituted as thorough a search as Gwen's description made possible.She had told me that her assailant was dark-skinned, yet with straight hair, and a cast of features that gave no hint of any Ethiopian taint.This, and his halting gait and great stature, were all the police had in the way of description, and I may as well add that the information was insufficient, for they never found any trace of Gwen's assailant.
I had had some hopes of this clue, but they were doomed todisappointment.It seemed evident to us that if anything were ever done in bringing Mr.Darrow's assassin to justice, Maitland would have to do it, unless, indeed, M.Godin solved the problem.=20 Osborne, Allen, and their associates were simply out of the question.
We debated for some time as to whether or not we should write Maitland about Gwen's strange experience, and finally decided that the knowledge would be a constant source of worriment without being of the least assistance to him while he was so far away.We, therefore, decided to keep our own counsel, for the present at least.
Maitland had written us a few lines from New York telling us the result of his analysis, and ended by saying:
There is no doubt that Mr.Darrow died of poison injected into the blood through the slight wound in the throat.This wound was not deep, and seemed to have been torn rather than cut in the flesh.What sort of weapon or projectile produced that wound is a question of the utmost importance, shrouded in the deepest of mysteries.Once this point is settled, however, its very uniqueness will be greatly in our favour.I have an idea our friend Ragobah might be able to throw some light upon this subject, therefore I am starting on my way to visit him this afternoon, and shall write you en route whenever occasion offers.My kindest regards to Miss Darrow.Yours sincerely,GEORGE MAITLAND.
P.S.I shall have leisure now on shipboard to set tie that question of atomic pitches, which is still a thorn in my intellectual flesh.
