ouse, making a
glow which cut through the starless night.

The woman did not move. Judge Wilton was in the act of kneeling beside
her.

"Hold on!" Hastings called out. "Don't disturb her--if she's dead."

"She is dead!" said Wilton.

"Who is she?" The detective, trying to find signs of life, put his hand
over her heart.

"I don't know," Wilton answered the question. "Do you, Sloane?"

"Of course, I don't!"

Hastings said afterwards that Sloane's reply expressed astonished
resentment that he should be suspected of knowing anybody vulgar enough
to be murdered on his lawn.

The detective drew back his hand. His fingers were dark with blood.

At that moment Berne Webster, Lucille Sloane's fiance, came from the
rear of the house, announcing breathlessly:

"No 'phone connection--this time of night, judge.--It's past
midnight.--I sent chauffeur--Lally--for the sheriff."

Hastings stood up, his first, cursory examination concluded.

"No doubt about it," he said. "She's dead.--Bring a blanket, somebody!"

Mr. Sloane's nerves had the best of him by this time. He trembled like
a man with a chill, rattling the bottle of smelling salts against the
metal end of his electric torch. He had on slippers and a light dressing
gown over his pajamas.

Wilton was fully dressed, young Webster collarless but wearing a black,
light-weight lounging jacket. Hastings was struck with the different
degrees of their dress, or undress.

"Who found her?" he asked, looking at Webster.

"Judge Wilton--and I," said Webster, so short of breath that his chest
heaved.

"How long ago?"

Wilton answered that:

"A few minutes, hardly five minutes. I ran in to call you and Sloane."

"And Mr.--you, Mr. Webster?"

"The judge told me to--to get the sheriff--by telephone."

Hastings knelt again over the woman's body.

"Here, Mr. Sloane," he ordered, "hold that torch closer, will you?"

Mr. Sloane found compliance impossible. He could not steady his hand
sufficiently.

"Hold that torch, judge," Hastings prompted.

"It's knocked me out--completely," Sloane said, surrendering the torch
to Wilton.

Webster, the pallor still on his face, a look of horror in his eyes,
stood on the side of the body opposite the detective. At brief
intervals he raised first one foot, then the other, clear of the ground
and set it down again. He was unconscious of making any movement at all.

Hastings, thoroughly absorbed in the work before him, went about