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.