She paused. Hastings was struck by her air of alertness, or of prepared waiting, of readiness for questions.
"Which way did the footsteps go?" he asked.
"From the house—down the slope, toward the little gate that opens on the road."
"Then what?"
"I wondered idly what it meant, but it made no serious impression on me. I listened again for sounds in father's room. There was none. Struck again by the heavy silence—it was almost oppressive, coming after the rain—I went to the window. I stood there, I don't know how long. I think I was day-dreaming, lazily running things over in my mind. I don't think it was very long.
"And then father turned on the light in his room." She made a quick gesture with her left hand, wonderfully expressive of shock. "I shall never forget that! The long, narrow panel of light reached out into the dark like an ugly, yellow arm—reached out just far enough to touch and lay hold of the picture there on the grass; a woman lying on the drenched ground, her face up, and bending over her Judge Wilton and Berne—Mr. Webster.
"I knew she'd been hurt dreadfully; her feet were drawn up, her knees high; and I could see the looks of horror on the men's faces."
She paused, giving all her strength to the effort to retain her self-control before the assailing memory of what she had seen.
"That was all, Miss Sloane?" the detective prompted, in a kindly tone.