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 house, making a glow which cut through the starless night.
The woman did not move. Judge Wilton was in the act of kneeling beside her.