the Horror to me in a fuller and more terrible form than ever, I
answered all his questions to the very best of my ability. I could
picture the whole scene like a photograph to myself; and I didn't
doubt the object he held in his hand was a photograph of the room as
it appeared after the murder. He checked my statements, one by one
as I went on, by reference to the photograph, murmuring half to
himself now and again: "Yes, yes, exactly so"; "That's right"; "That
was so," at each item I mentioned.

At the end of these inquiries, he paused and looked hard at me.

"Now, Miss Callingham," he said again, peering deep into my eyes, "I
want you to concentrate your mind very much, not on this Picture you
carry so vividly in your own brain, but on the events that went
immediately before and after it. Pause long and think. Try hard to
remember. And first, you say there was a great flash of light. Now,
answer me this: was it one flash alone, or had there been several?"

I stopped and racked my brain. Blank, blank, as usual.

"I can't remember," I faltered out, longing terribly to cry. "I can
recall just that one scene, and nothing else in the world before
it."

He looked at me fixedly, jotting down a few words in his note-book
as he looked. Then he spoke again, still more slowly:

"Now, try once more," he said, with an encouraging air. "You saw
this man's back as he was getting out of the window. But can't you
remember having seen his face before? Had he a beard? a moustache?