"Towards Fleet House," Masters interpolated grimly. "About three hundred feet that's all."
Sir George was there. I could see all round him. He had his glasses to his eyes in one hand, and was waving with the other. Then it looked like somebody gave him a hard shove in the back. He stood there for a second. He shouted. He fell head-first I did not follow him with the glasses because I was too surprised. I just kept looking round to see who could have pushed him.
It was a shorn statement Yet Martin Drake, had he been there, would have seen the red sky with the silhouetted figure, and scented the autumn air, and sensed the rush and crash.
"I won't trouble you," Masters said drily, "with what you know. But just to hammer it home, sir! A bit of what Puckston said, the man with the telescope. His attention was caught by this yell Sir George gave."
And then spoke Mr. Puckston.
I looked round. I saw something pitch over the little ledge, but it was so quick I did not see what it was. I looked all over the roof, but did not see anybody or anything. I looked down. Sir George was lying there, and something was wrong with his head. Dr. Laurier ran out of the front door. Bert Hartshorn—
"Bert," Masters explained, "was the constable. He'd been at the pub, but naturally he (hurruml) couldn't climb on the roof."
— Bert Hartshorn was coming up to the terrace. Dr. Laurier said something, and Bert picked up Sir George's binoculars and walked into the house. Dr. Laurier said something else, and Lady Brayle came out with some kind of cloth. I said aloud, 'The bastard is dead.'
To Masters it was one more case, with nothing more of drama than a blueprint He closed the blue folder.
"There's more of Puckston," he explained. "And four others who were lower down in between the gables. But it needn't trouble us. Eh?"