Gardiner reconstructed the scene, exact in every detail save one. "He came across to the table, to fill his glass, I suppose, and seemed to lose his balance—his feet flew up in the air. We didn't think anything of it, did we, Denis? It was the most ordinary tumble."
"Didn't strike against anything in falling, did he?"
"No; he went flat on his back, as you do on a slide."
"Sure? Well, how do you account for that, then?"
He pointed to a tiny star of blood on the dead man's forehead. Gardiner looked as he felt, nonplussed.
"I can't account for it."
"You can't, hey? Your friend, then—he any idea?"
"No," said Denis from the window, without turning round. There was an uncomfortable pause.
"What's all this mess of glass about?" asked Miss Marvin, who was listening with all her intelligent ears.
"I don't know—yes, I do, though; Major Trent had been having a whisky and soda, and dropped the tumbler as he fell. I remember hearing it smash."