"No. But I had cigarettes and matches with me. I intended to smoke—and walk about."
"But what happened?"
"It was so much darker than I had thought that I groped along with my feet, much as Judge Wilton did. I was making my way toward the front verandah. I went on, sliding my feet on the wet grass."
"Any reason for doing that, do you remember? Are there any obstructions there, anything but smooth, open lawn?"
"No. It was merely an instinctive act—in pitch dark, you know."
Webster, his eyes still toward the floor, waited for another question. Not getting it, he resumed:
"My foot struck something soft. I thought it was a wet cloak, something of that sort, left out in the rain. I hadn't heard a thing. And I had no premonition of anything wrong. I bent over, with nothing more than sheer idle curiosity, to put my hand on whatever the thing was. And just then the light went on in Mr. Sloane's bedroom. The judge and I were looking at each other across somebody lying on the ground, face upward."
"Either of you cry out?"
"No."