“Out of a window, sir, a second floor window ten yards up a side street! Pitched on his skull—marvel he wasn't killed outright!”
A faint expression of interest began to creep into Harley's glance, and:
“I understand you to mean, Major Ragstaff,” he said deliberately, “that while your struggle with the drunken man was in progress Mr. De Lana fell out of a neighbouring window into the street?”
“Right!” shouted the Major. “Right, sir!”
“Do you know this Mr. De Lana?”
“Never heard of him in my life until the accident occurred. Seems to me the poor devil leaned out to see the fun and overbalanced. Felt responsible, only natural, and made inquiries. He died at six o'clock this evenin', sir.”
“H'm,” said Harley reflectively. “I still fail to see where I come in. From what window did he fall?”
“Window above a sort of teashop, called Cafe Dame—damn silly name. Place on a corner. Don't know name of side street.”
“H'm. You don't think he was pushed out, for instance?”
“Certainly not!” shouted the Major; “he just fell out, but the point is, he's dead!”