Part 2 (1/2)

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 it swiftly, with now and then brief, murmured comment on what he did and saw. Although his ample night-s.h.i.+rt, stuffed into his equally baggy trousers, contributed nothing but comicality to his appearance, the others submitted without question to his domination. There was about him suddenly an atmosphere of power that impressed even the little group of awe-struck servants who stood a few feet away.

”Stabbed,” he said, after he had run his hands over the woman's figure; ”died instantly--must have. Got her heart.--Young--not over twenty-five, would you say?--Not dead long.--Anybody call a doctor?”

”I told Lally to stop by Dr. Garnet's house and send him--at once,”

Webster said, his voice low, and broken. ”He's the coroner, too.”

Hastings continued his examination. The brief pause that ensued was broken by a woman's voice:

”Pauline! Pauline!”

The call came from one of the upstairs windows. Hearing it, a woman in the servant group hurried into the house.

Webster groaned: ”My G.o.d!”