"Who reached the body first? Can you say?"
"No. I don't think either was first. We got there together."
"Simultaneously?"
"Yes."
"But I'm overlooking something. How did you happen to be there?"
"That's simple enough," Webster said, his brows drawn together, his eyes toward the floor, evidently making great effort to omit no detail of what had occurred. "I went to my room when we broke up here, at eleven. I read for a while. I got tired of that—it was close and hot. Besides, I never go to bed before one in the morning—that is, practically never. And I wasn't sleepy.
"I looked at my watch. It was a quarter to twelve. Like the judge, I noticed that it had stopped raining. I thought I'd have a better night's sleep if I got out and cooled off thoroughly. My room, the one I have this time, is close to the back stairway. I went down that, and out the door on the north side."
"Were you smoking?" Hastings put the query sharply, as if to test the narrator's nerves.
Webster's frown deepened.