"So you could have called for help. And yet you didn't?"
Stannard's gaze wandered towards Ruth.
"Inspector," he said tenderly, and took a deep pull at the whisky and soda, "I wouldn't have 'called for help,' as you put it, for anything on earth."
"What did you do next?"
Stannard took another deep pull at the whisky and soda, emptying the glass.
"I put my lamp on the floor. I put my hands on the edge of the shaft opposite the side on which the trap door had fallen. I let myself hang down inside, stretching my arms to full length. Then I let go, and landed on my feet in the blood beside the dead girl."
Masters was badly jarred. "You mean — you thought you might give help of some kind?" "Never mind my motives. That's what I did." "Oh, ah. And then?" '
"The shaft, as I had noticed before," Stannard's husky voice had grown huskier, "was ten feet deep." His vitality seemed to be ebbing, despite the whisky. "I couldn't get out. I was shut in. And I had no lamp. Consequently, all I could do was sit down in a corner and wait for daylight."
"But why in turn's name did you do that? If you knew the shaft was ten feet deep?"
"Chief Inspector!" Martin said sharply. And, though Masters turned a sinister eye which threatened prison or worse, Martin ignored it. "If you'll let me ask Stannard just one question, in my own way, I'll guarantee to get you out of this trouble. Is that fair, or isn't it?"