He had known it from the beginning, from the moment he heard the woman's scream.

Mary Standish was gone.
He looked at her bed.

There was the depression made by her head in the pillow.

A little handkerchief lay on the coverlet, crumpled and twisted.
Her few possessions were arranged neatly on the reading table.

Then he saw her shoes and her stockings, and a dress on the bed, and he picked up one of the shoes and held it in a cold, steady hand.