"What we have to stand depends on our footing. The man who grubs in dirty soil mustn't complain that his hands are black. You came to blows, I suppose, and he went over. Is that what you would say?"
"I struck him on the face, and he tried to draw a revolver on me—we were on the plateau, and he went over. If he's hurt, I'll pay compensation. What more do you want?"
Benny looked at him curiously. Was he lying outright, or merely reciting a defence he had rehearsed in the interval? It was difficult to say. The truth must be told without delay, for the truth alone could move him.
"You say the man went over. Did you see him after he fell?"
"See him! What do you mean?"
"I ask if you saw him after he fell—he might have been injured, you know?"
Delayne returned to the table, and took a deep draught from the tumbler there.
"You know something," he said, averting his eyes. "Well, I'm not a child; tell me."
Benny crossed over, and looked him full in the face.
"It's a pity you didn't stop," he said quietly—"the man's dead—!"