Again Orienta’s eyes fastened themselves on the big armchair.
“I see him clearly,” she said, clasping her hands in her tense concentration, “but his back is toward me as he bends over his victim.”
“How is he dressed?”
“I cannot quite tell. His figure is vague. His clothes seem merely a dark shadow against the light.”
“Does it seem to be evening dress?”
“It may be. I cannot say, surely.”
“At any rate, it is not the rough dress of a tramp or burglar?”
“No,—not that, I think.”
“He is not masked?”
“No.”