"Fell right down the stair, tray and all," said Black Beard, "just as if he'd been pushed."
Melchard was stooping over the scarce breathing body.
"He's not dead," he declared.
"He will be," said Black Beard, "unless you 'phone to Millsborough for a doctor damn quick."
"Don't be a fool, Ockley. Better let him die than bring a sharp-witted medical practitioner to my house, to-day of all days."
"If we have a death here in your house," Ockley retorted, "they'll want to know how and why and when. And 'no doctor called'—and 'this shady Mr. Melchard'—and all the damned things that always happen. Will that be good for your health—with the whole game in your hands, too?"
Melchard was hit, and Dick thought that he saw his face lose colour.
"Well?" he said nervously.
"Either fetch medical aid," replied Ockley, "or bury him under the ash-heap. And that's going a bit far for an accident."
"Was he pushed? I wonder," said Melchard; and the pair, with heads together, spoke in whispers inaudible to Dick, who writhed himself six inches back from the baluster, in fear of the upward glance which might come at any moment.