"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 fiancé, 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.