"What do you mean?" she demanded.
"Carleton has just described the accident to Brabazon and me," I answered. "He saw Randall sway and fall over the cliff. I believe his story, although I fear few people will agree with me."
"I don't know the story," she said, faintly. "Pray tell it to me."
I did so in a few words.
"You believe all this?" she said, with intense eagerness, when I had done speaking.
"Yes."
"How do you account for Mr. Randall's death?"
I could not help sighing deeply.
"You allude now to the difficulty of the position," I said. "At the present moment I cannot account for Randall's death. A man in perfect health is not often attacked with such violent vertigo as to cause him to lose the power of keeping himself upright." Then I paused—I was thinking deeply. "Undoubtedly there have been such cases," I said, "but they are rare."
I remembered, as I spoke, Randall's change of colour and the sudden pressure of his hand to his head that morning at breakfast.