“Oh, sir,” begged Blake, his frightened eyes wavering toward the members of the household which employed him, “oh, sir—Mrs. Faulkner, sir,—she came in with me,—she can tell better than I——”
“Mrs. Faulkner will be questioned in due time. You came in first; we will hear your version and then hers. Be accurate now.”
With great hesitancy, Blake stepped to the spots he had designated.
“Mrs. Stannard stood here,” he said, indicating a position perhaps a yard back and to the left of Stannard’s chair, which was still in its place.
“What was she doing?”
“Nothing, sir. One hand was on this table, and the other sort of clasped against her breast.”
“And Miss Vernon?”
“She was over here,” and Blake, still behind the chair, crossed to its other side, and stood near the outer door.
“How was she standing?”
“Against this small table, and the table was swaying back and forth, like it would upset in a minute.”