“My head! Oh! my head!” she kept on exclaiming, passing her hand across her brow as though to clear her brain.
“Does it pain you?” I inquired.
“It seems as though a band of iron were round it. I can’t think. I—I can’t remember!” And she glanced about her helplessly, her eyes with a wild strange look in them, her face so haggard and drawn that it gave her a look of premature age.
“Oh! Mary, dear!” cried Ethelwynn, taking both her cold hands. “Why, what’s the matter? Calm yourself, dear.” Then turning to me she asked, “Can nothing be done, Ralph? See—she’s not herself. The shock has unbalanced her brain.”
“Ralph! Ethelwynn!” gasped the unfortunate woman, looking at us with an expression of sudden wonder. “What has happened? Did I understand you aright? Poor Henry is dead?”
“Unfortunately that is the truth.” I was compelled to reply. “It is a sad affair, Mary, and you have all our sympathy. But recollect he was an invalid, and for a long time his life has been despaired of.”
I dared not yet tell her the terrible truth that he had been the victim of foul play.
“It is my fault!” she cried. “My place was here—at home. But—but why was I not here?” she added with a blank look. “Where did I go?”
“Don’t you remember that you went to London with the Hennikers?” I said.
“Ah! of course!” she exclaimed. “How very stupid of me to forget. But do you know, I’ve never experienced such a strange sensation before. My memory is a perfect blank. How did I return here?”