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 to disappointment.  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.  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.