"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."