on the scene."
"I see; but I really don't remember. I'm not sure that either of us touched the body – just then. I think we both drew back, instinctively, when the light flashed on. Afterwards, of course, we both touched her – looking for signs of life."
The detective came to a standstill in front of Webster.
"Who reached the body first? Can you say?"
"No. I don't think either was first. We got there together."
"Simultaneously?"
"Yes."
"But I'm overlooking something. How did you happen to be there?"
"That's simple enough," Webster said, his brows drawn together, his eyes toward the floor, evidently making great effort to omit no detail of what had occurred. "I went to my room when we broke up here, at eleven. I read for a while. I got tired of that – it was close and hot. Besides, I never go to bed before one in the morning – that is, practically never. And I wasn't sleepy.
"I looked at my watch. It was a quarter to twelve. Like the judge, I noticed that it had stopped raining. I thought I'd have a better night's sleep if I got out and cooled off thoroughly. My room, the one I have this time, is close to the back stairway. I went down that, and out the door on the north side."
"Were you smoking?" Hastings put the query sharply, as if to test the narrator's nerves.
Webster's frown deepened.
"No. But I had cigarettes and matches with me. I intended to smoke – and walk about."
"But what happened?"
"It was so much darker than I had thought that I groped along with my feet, much as Judge Wilton did. I was making my way toward the front verandah. I went on, sliding my feet on the wet grass."
"Any reason for doing that, do you remember? Are there any obstructions there, anything but smooth, open lawn?"
"No. It was merely an instinctive act – in pitch dark, you know."
Webster, his eyes still toward the floor, waited for another question. Not getting it, he resumed:
"My foot struck something soft. I thought it was a wet cloak, something of that sort, left out in the rain. I hadn't heard a thing. And I had no premonition of anything wrong. I bent over, with nothing more than sheer idle curiosity, to put my hand on whatever the thing was. And just then the light went on in Mr. Sloane's bedroom. The judge and I were looking at each other across somebody lying on the ground, face upward."
"Either of you cry out?"
"No."
"Say anything?"
"Not much."
"Well, what?"
"I remember the judge said, 'Is she dead?' I said, 'How is she hurt?' We didn't say much while we were looking for the wound."
"Did you tell Judge Wilton you knew her?"
"No. There wasn't time for any explanation – specially."
"But you do know her?"
"I told you that, sir, outside – just now."
"All right. Who is she?" Hastings put that query carelessly, in a way which might have meant that he had heard the most important part of the young lawyer's story. That impression was heightened by his beginning again to pace the floor.
"Her name's Mildred Brace," replied Webster, moistening his lips with his tongue. "She was my stenographer for eight months."
The detective drew up sharply.
"When?"
"Until two weeks ago."
"She resign?"
"Yes. No – I discharged her."
"What for?"
"Incompetence."
"I don't understand that exactly. You mean you employed her eight months although she was incompetent?"
"That's pretty bald," Webster objected. "Her incompetence came, rather, from temperament. She was, toward the last, too nervous, excitable. She was more trouble than she was worth."
"Ah, that's different," Hastings said, with a significance that was clear. "People might have thought," he elaborated, "if you had fired her for other reasons, this tragedy tonight would have put you in an unenviable position – to say the least."
He had given words to the vague feeling which had depressed them all, ever since the discovery of the murder; that here was something vastly greater than the accidental finding of a person killed by an outsider, that the crime touched Sloanehurst personally. The foreboding had been patent – almost, it seemed, a tangible thing – but, until this moment, each had steered clear of it, in speech.
Webster's response was bitter.
"They'll want to say it anyway, I guess." To that he added, in frank resentment: "And I might as well enter a denial here: I had nothing to do with the – this whole lamentable affair!"
The silence in which he and Hastings regarded each other was broken by Arthur Sloane's querulous words:
"Why – why, in the name of all the inscrutable saints, this thing should have happened at Sloanehurst, is more than I can say! Jumping angels! Now, let me tell you what I – "
He stopped, hearing light footfalls coming down the hall. There was the swish of silk, a little outcry half-repressed, and Lucille Sloane stood in the doorway. One hand was at her breast, the other against the door-frame, to steady her tall, slightly swaying figure. Her hair, a pyramid on her head, as if the black, heavy masses of it had been done by hurrying fingers, gave to her unusual beauty now an added suggestion of dignity.
Profoundly moved as she was, there was nothing of the distracted or the inadequate about her. Hastings, who had admired her earlier in the evening, saw that her poise was far from overthrown. It seemed to him that she even had considered how to wear with extraordinary effect the brilliant, vari-coloured kimono draped about her. The only criticism of her possible was that, perhaps, she seemed a trifle too imperious – but, for his part, he liked that.
"A thoroughbred!" he catalogued her, mentally.
"You will excuse me, father," she said from the doorway, "but I couldn't help hearing." She thrust forward her chin. "Oh, I had to hear! – And there's something I have to tell."
Her glance went at last from Sloane to Hastings as she advanced slowly into the room.
The detective pushed forward a chair for her.
"That's fine, Miss Sloane," he assured her. "I'm sure you're going to help us."
"It isn't much," she qualified, "but I think it's important."
Still she looked at neither Berne Webster nor Judge Wilton. And only a man trained as Hastings was to keenness of observation would have seen the slight but incessant tremour of her fingers and the constant, convulsive play of the muscles under the light covering of her black silk slippers.
Sloane,
