tinctively,
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