What the Papers Said
There are occasions when speech is an intrusion and sympathy an affront. An occasion of this kind coincided with Fanny’s exit. On the mantel the clock still ticked. Otherwise there was silence in that room.
Orr, finishing with his glove, made for the door. “If I can be of use,” he said, “let me know.”
Annandale stood up. “You can,” he answered. For a moment he hesitated. He seemed lost and dizzy. Then, with an effort, he got himself together. “Tell Sylvia it is not true.”
Orr passed out. But instead of returning at once to Irving Place he went up the steps of an adjoining house. There he was told that Mrs. Loftus could see no one. He had not expected to be received. But he felt for her, felt, too, how she must feel.
That a Loftus should die would, he knew, be enough. But that a Loftus should be murdered, and that Loftus be her son, there was something which, Orr thought, might perhaps overwhelm her. And, as Orr afterward learned, Mrs. Loftus was then sitting, her attendants about her, absently and ceaselessly shaking her head. Nor did the motion of it ever cease. She was palsied.
Before Orr learned of that other things supervened, primarily fresh extras. These of course were indicated. The imagination of the public had been stirred. Of all things mystery affects the imagination most. Here was one agreeably heightened by subsequent editions announcing the projection of the eternal feminine.