His eye shot out from its heavy lid and took them all in. It lingered on Weldon.
"This the young man with him at the time? Sudden shock, eh?"
Weldon told his story again. They had talked of business. The president had put his hand in his pocket. Handkerchief, probably. Had experienced some shock and fallen, dead-weight, on his bent arm. As you see him now. Unable to lift him. Notified Mr. Dupont immediately. Nothing more.
"Dear, dear!" said Mr. Webb. "As quickly as that! Hard on you. Nothing handy, I suppose; only window up and water and such things?"
For the life of him Weldon could not help the slow red in his face. He glanced at the window: it was locked. For Heaven's sake, why lie? He was no murderer. And yet—any one, any one would have opened that window.
"I did what I could," he said in a low voice, "but it was plain that Mr. Deeping was dead. He never drew another breath."
"No brandy about, I suppose?" pursued Webb.
But Potter interrupted.
"For Heaven's sake, Webb," he implored, "let all that go! He's gone. You know he never touched a drop of anything. Of course there was no brandy."
"Of course," Weldon interrupted, relieved. Every one knew the president's views on that subject; he had forgotten them.