A moment and my eyes adapted themselves to the new
environment, the moonlight streaming through the open window, and
across the man's body. With heart quaking like a frightened girl, I
stole across the floor, and glanced out. A single story extension,
probably the kitchen roof, was below. Kneeling upon this the assassin
could easily fire into the room. Beyond, the pale moonshine revealed a
patch of grass, a weed-entangled garden, and behind these a dense
forest growth. To the right of the garden I could dimly distinguish a
row of small cabins, the negro quarters. Coombs would be occupying one
of these, and they were so close that, even if asleep at the time, he
could scarcely fail to hear the report of the gun in the silent night.
Yet there was no light along the row of huts, no sign of human presence.
All this was but a rapid survey, for I dare not remain there, my back
to that black interior. The body of the dead man huddled on the floor,
the unknown mystery of the dark house, filled me with an awful dread.
Seized by sudden terror I caught up the extinguished lamp, scarcely
breathing until again outside in the hallway, the door closed behind
me. Trembling in every limb I felt my way along through the darkness,
guiding myself by the wall.
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