“Yes,” I replied.
Harley nodded shortly and turned again to the man in the chair.
“I am sorry to give you so much trouble, Mr. Meyer,” he said, “but I should like my friend here to see the room above.”
At this moment my attention was attracted by a singular object which lay upon the desk amongst a litter of bills and accounts. This was a piece of rusty iron bar somewhat less than three feet in length, and which once had been painted green.
“You are looking at this tragic fragment, Knox,” said Harley, taking up the bar. “Of course”—he shrugged his shoulders—“it explains the whole unfortunate occurrence. You see there was a flaw in the metal at this end, here”—he indicated the spot—“and the other end had evidently worn loose in its socket.”
“But I don't understand.”
“It will all be made clear at the inquest, no doubt. A most unfortunate thing for you, Mr. Meyer.”
“Most unfortunate,” declared the proprietor of the restaurant, extending his thick hands pathetically. “Most ruinous to my business.”
“We will go upstairs now,” said Harley. “You will kindly lead the way, Mr. Meyer, and the whole thing will be quite clear to you, Knox.”
As the proprietor walked out of the office and upstairs to the second floor Harley whispered in my ear: