After I had moved around for perhaps seven or eight minutes I heard a small boy call to another. “Come out here!” he screamed in a high soprano. “There’s a man biffed on the bean, and mebbe he’s dead!”
And how people moved! I didn’t immediately. I couldn’t, for I remembered my giving Mr. Kempwood the bracelet, and I knew what had happened. I felt sick, and swallowed hard, although I hadn’t any more spit than usual. But that is the way that fright made me feel. . . . It was the worst I had ever felt. . . . Somehow I hurried toward the door with the crowd, and I then did the second cowardly thing which hurt one of my friends who cares for the Mansion, I slipped off my bracelet and handed it to him.
“Until I come back----” I whispered, after a gasp. He nodded and put it in his pocket. I suppose he thought I was afraid of sneak thieves in the mob which had collected. Then I pushed through the door. . . . All the excitement was back of the Mansion where--Mr. Kempwood lay on the ground--absolutely white and with his eyes closed, and people were bending over him. I began to sob, although I didn’t cry any tears at all.
“Let me through,” I said, as I tried to get past the circle which had formed. “I know him. . . . I love him. . . . He has been good to me, and he is my friend!” And then, somehow I had reached him and was on my knees beside him, holding one of his cold, stiff hands between both of mine.
“Is he dead?” I whispered to one of the policemen.
“Stunned,” he answered. For a moment I held his hand tightly pressed against my heart, and then I began to sob harder than ever. . . . I think the relief that comes with good news often makes you more upset than the bad and hurts more. I don’t know why this is, but it is so. . . . After a few moments a policeman asked me where he lived, and I told him.
Someone offered a motor, and they began to lift Mr. Kempwood. Another officer had detained some people and was questioning them. “Weren’t you here?” he asked of a heavy old Italian woman who had been sitting on a bench, but she only shook her head, blinked and muttered: “Non parlo la Inglesa, parlo Italiano solamente!” And someone said she had been sleeping, but the officer looked doubtful.
“Nevertheless,” he said, “we will take you along,” and I, in that moment, saw that she did understand, for in her eyes was a sudden glint of terror. It faded soon, and she replaced it with a vacant look, but--I had caught the other. I think she had seen.
“She knows,” I began to say, when suddenly everything was forgotten, for, from the Jumel Mansion came a cry which began loudly and faded to a horrible silence, and the cry was for help. . . . Of course, the officers ran, and somehow--the old Italian woman slipped away. I had seen her the moment before, but when I turned back to look after Mr. Kempwood, I found only the old blind man coming up the side steps to the garden, shuffling, shambling up, with his cane feeling the way. He and I and a doctor were alone.
“The old Italian woman has gone,” I said, “and I think she knew----”