style="font-size:15px;"> "Mr. Hast – Mr. Hastings, take charge of – of things. Will you? You know about these things."
The detective accepted the suggestion.
"Suppose we get at what we know about it – what we all know. Let's go inside." He turned to the servants: "Stay here until you're called. See that nothing is disturbed, nothing touched."
He led the way into the house. Sloane, near collapse, clung to one of Judge Wilton's broad shoulders. It was young Webster who, as the little procession passed the hatrack in the front hall, caught up a raincoat and threw it over the half-clad Hastings.
III
THE UNEXPECTED WITNESS
In the library Hastings turned first to Judge Wilton for a description of the discovery of the body. The judge was in better condition than the others for connected narrative, Arthur Sloane had sunk into a morris chair, where he sighed audibly and plied himself by fits and starts with the aroma from the bottle of smelling salts. Young Webster, still breathing as if he had been through exhausting physical endeavour, stood near the table in the centre of the room, mechanically shifting his weight from foot to foot.
Wilton, seated half-across the room from Hastings, drew, absently, on a dead cigar-stump. A certain rasping note in his voice was his only remaining symptom of shock. He had the stern calmness of expression that is often seen in the broad, irregularly-featured face in early middle age.
"I can tell you in very few words," he said, addressing the detective directly. "We all left this room, you'll remember, at eleven o'clock. I found my bedroom uncomfortable, too warm. Besides, it had stopped raining. When I noticed that, I decided to go out and smoke my good-night cigar. This is what's left of it."
He put a finger to the unlighted stump still between his lips.
"What time did you go out?" asked Hastings.
"Probably, a quarter of an hour after I'd gone upstairs – fifteen or twenty minutes past eleven, I should guess."
"How did you go out – by what door?"
"The front door. I left it unlocked, but not open. At first I paced up and down, on the south side of the house, under the trees. It was reasonably light there then – that is to say, the clouds had thinned a little, and, after my eyes had got accustomed to it, I had no trouble in avoiding the trees and shrubbery.
"Then a cloud heavier than the others came up, I suppose. Anyway, it was much darker. There wasn't a light in the house, except in my room and Berne Webster's. Yours was out, I remember. I passed by the front of the house then, and went around to the north side. It was darker there, I thought, than it had been under the trees on the south side."
"How long had you been out then, altogether?"
"Thirty or forty minutes." He looked at his watch. "It's a quarter past twelve now. Let me see. I found the body a few minutes after I changed over to the north side. I guess I found it about five minutes before midnight – certainly not more than twenty minutes ago."
Hastings betrayed his impatience only by squinting under his spectacles and down the line of his nose, eying Wilton closely.
"All right, judge! Let's have it."
"I was going along slowly, very slowly, not doing much more than feeling my way with my feet on the close-shaven grass. It was the darkest night I ever saw. Literally, I couldn't have seen my hand in front of me.
"I had decided to turn about and go indoors when I was conscious of some movement, or slight sound, directly in front of me, and downward, at my feet. I got that impression."
"What movement? You mean the sound of a fall?"
"No; not that exactly."
"A footstep?"
"No. I hadn't any definite idea what sort of noise it was. I did think that, perhaps, it was a dog or a cat. Just then my foot came in contact with something soft. I stooped down instinctively, immediately.
"At that moment, that very second, a light flashed on in Arthur's bedroom. That's between this room and the big ballroom – on this floor, of course. That light threw a long, illuminating shaft into the murky darkness, the end of it coming just far enough to touch me and – what I found – the woman's body. I saw it by that light before I had time to touch it with my hand."
The judge stopped and drew heavily on his dead cigar.
"All right. See anything else?" Hastings urged.
"Yes; I saw Berne Webster. He had made the noise which attracted my attention."
"How do you know that?"
"He must have. He was stooping down, too, on the other side of the body, facing me, when the light went on – "
Sloane, twisting nervously in his chair, cut into Wilton's narrative.
"I can put this much straight," he said in shrill complaint: "I turned on the light you're talking about. I hadn't been able to sleep."
"Let's have this, one at a time, if you don't mind, Mr. Sloane," the detective suggested, watching Webster.
The young man, staring with fascinated intensity at Judge Wilton, seemed to experience some new horror as he listened.
"He was on the other side of it," the judge continued, "and practically in the same position that I was. We faced each other across the body. I think that describes the discovery, as you call it. We immediately examined the woman, looking for the wound, and found it. When we saw she was dead, we came in to wake you – and try to get a doctor. I told Berne to do that."
During the last few sentences Hastings had been walking slowly from his chair to the library door and back, his hands gouged deep into his trouser-pockets, folds of his night-shirt protruding from and falling over the waistband of the trousers, the raincoat hanging baggily from his shoulders. Ludicrous as the costume was, however, the old man so dominated them still that none of them, not even Wilton, questioned his authority.
And yet, the thing he was doing should have appealed to them as noteworthy. A man of less power could not have accomplished it. Coming from a sound sleep to the scene of a murder, he had literally picked up these men who had discovered it and who must be closely touched by it, had overcome their agitation, had herded them into the house and, with amazing promptness, had set about the task of getting from them the stories of what they knew and what they had done.
Appreciating his opportunity, he had determined to bring to light at once everything they knew. He devoted sudden attention now to Webster, whom he knew by reputation – a lawyer thirty years of age, brilliant in the criminal courts, and at present striving for a foothold in the more remunerative ranks of civil practice. He had never been introduced to him, however, before meeting him at Sloanehurst.
"Who touched that body first – Mr. Webster?" he demanded, his slow promenade uninterrupted as he kept his eyes on the lawyer's.
"Judge – I don't know, I believe," Webster replied uncertainly. "Who did, judge?"
"I want your recollection," Hastings insisted, kindly in spite of the unmistakable command of his tone. "That's why I asked you."
"Why?"
"For one thing, it might go far
