“I saw Mr. Stannard first, at the other end of the room, in his favourite big chair, and he was like a man dying——”
“Have you ever seen a man die?” Lamson snapped out the words as if his own nerves were at a tension.
“No—no, sir.”
“Then how do you know how one would look?”
“I saw something had been thrust into his breast, I saw red stains on his shirt front, and I saw his face, drawn as in agony, and his eyes staring, yet with a sort of glaze over them, and his hands stretched out, but sort of fluttering, as if he had lost control over his muscles. I couldn’t think other than that he was a dying man, sir.”
“That is what I want you to tell, Blake. An exact account of the scene as it appeared to you. Now the rest of it. Were you too absorbed in the spectacle of Mr. Stannard’s plight to see clearly the others who were present?”
“No, sir,” and the man’s calm face quivered now. “It is as if photographed on my brain. I can never forget it. Behind Mr. Stannard were the two ladies, Mrs. Stannard and Miss Vernon.”
“Directly behind him?”
“Not that, exactly. Mrs. Stannard stood behind, but off toward his left, and Miss Vernon was behind, but toward the right.”
“Show me exactly, Blake, where these two ladies stood,” and Coroner Lamson rose to see his demands fulfilled.