y Mr. Sloane, had met the
detective on the street in Washington and urged:

"Go down to Sloanehurst and spend Saturday night. I'll be there when you
arrive. Sloane's got his mind set on seeing you; and you won't regret
it. His library on criminology will be a revelation, even to you."

And Hastings, largely because he shrank from seeming ungracious, had
accepted Mr. Sloane's subsequent invitation.

Climbing now into the old-fashioned four-poster bed, he thought again of
his conversation-spree and longed for self-justification. He sat up,
sheetless, reflecting:

"As a week-ender, I'm a fine old chatter-box!--But young Webster got me!
What did he say?--'The cleverer the criminal, the easier to run him
down. The thug, acting on the spur of the moment, with a blow in the
dark and a getaway through the night, leaves no trace behind him. Your
"smart criminal" always overreaches himself.'--A pretty theory, but
wild. Anyway, it made me forget myself; I talked my old fool head off."

He felt himself blush.

"Wish I'd let Wilton do the disproving; he was anxious enough."

A mental picture of Sloane consoled him once more.

"Silk socks and gingham gumption!" he thought. "But he's honest in his
talk about being interested in crime. The man loves crime!--Good thing
he's got plenty of money."

He fell asleep, in a kind of ruminative growl:

"Made a fool of myself--babbling about what _I_ remembered--what _I_
thought! I'll go back to Washington--in the morning."

Judge Wilton's unsteady voice, supplemented by a rattling of the
doorknob, roused him. He had thrust one foot out of bed when Wilton came
into the room.

"Quick! Come on, man!" the judge instructed, and hurried into the hall.

"What's wrong?" Hastings demanded, reaching for his spectacles.

Wilton, on his way down the stairs, flung back:

"A woman hurt--outside."

From the hall below came Mr. Sloane's high-pitched, complaining tones:

"Unfathomable angels! What do you say?--Who?"

Drawing on shoes and trousers, the detective overtook his host on the
front verandah and followed him down the steps and around the northeast
corner of the house. He noticed that Sloane carried in one hand an
electric torch and in the other a bottle of smelling salts. It was no
longer raining.

Rounding the corner, they saw, scarcely fifteen yards from the
bay-window of the ballroom, the upturned face of a woman who lay
prostrate on the lawn. Lights had been turned on in the h