And Rich stepped back.
Frank Sharpless felt a chill as though he had been touched with ice.
Vicky Fane lay back quietly, every limb at rest, in the white easy chair. As Rich shifted the light on her, they saw that her eyes were closed. She did not move except for the slow rise and fall of her breast, where the light made a hollow in the smooth flesh above the bodice of the violet-colored gown.
The face, framed in brown bobbed hair, was serene and untroubled, the eyelids waxy, the mouth faintly wistful.
Sharpless, Arthur, Hubert, Ann Browning were all still trying to shake themselves loose from the spell, as from clinging veils on a threshold. Ann spoke, instinctively, in a whisper.
"Can she hear us?"
"No," said Rich, in his normal voice. The change sounded startling. He mopped his moist forehead with a handkerchief.
"Is she really-"
"Oh, yes. She's gone."
"Now, Mr. Fane. Will you take the revolver and the dagger, and place them on that round table I put in the middle of the room?"