Then the shaft of light was extinguished as suddenly as the snuffing of a candle, and he crumpled forward to the foot of the stairs—struck—lay on his face in the darkness, just inside the double doors. Dale gave a little whimpering cry of horror. “Oh, no, no, no,” she whispered from a dry throat, automatically stuffing her portion of the precious scrap of blue-print into the bosom of her dress. She stood frozen, not daring to move, not daring even to reach down with her hand and touch the body of Fleming to see if he was dead or alive. A murmur of excited voices sounded from the hall. The door flew open, feet stumbled through the darkness—“The noise came from this room!” that was Anderson’s voice—“Holy Virgin!” that must be Lizzie— Even as Dale turned to face the assembled household, the house lights, extinguished since the storm, came on in full brilliance—revealing her to them, standing beside Fleming’s body with Miss Cornelia’s revolver between them. She shuddered, seeing Fleming’s arm flung out awkwardly by his side. No living man could lie in such a posture. “I didn’t do it! I didn’t do it!” she stammered, after a tense silence that followed the sudden reillumining of the lights. Her eyes wandered from figure to figure idly, noting unimportant details. Billy was still in his white coat and his face, impassive as ever, showed not the slightest surprise. Brooks and Anderson were likewise completely dressed—but Miss Cornelia had evidently begun to retire for the night when she had heard the shot—her transformation was askew and she wore a dressing-gown. As for Lizzie, that worthy shivered in a gaudy wrapper adorned with incredible orange flowers, with her hair done up in curlers. Dale saw it all and was never after to forget one single detail of it. The detective was beside her now, examining Fleming’s body with professional thoroughness. At last he rose. “He’s dead,” he said quietly. A shiver ran through the watching group. Dale felt a stifling hand constrict about her heart. There was a pause. Anderson picked up the revolver beside Fleming’s body and examined it swiftly, careful not to confuse his own fingerprints with any that might already be on the polished steel. Then he looked at Dale. “Who is he?” he said bluntly. Dale fought hysteria for some seconds before she could speak. “Richard Fleming—somebody shot him!” she managed to whisper at last. Anderson took a step toward her. “What do you mean by somebody?” he said. The world to Dale turned into a crowd of threatening, accusing eyes—a multitude of shadowy voices, shouting, _Guilty! Guilty! Prove that you’re innocent—you can’t!_ “I don’t know,” she said wildly. “Somebody on the staircase.” “Did you see anybody?” Anderson’s voice was as passionless and cold as a bar of steel.