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“Well-lit?” Mr. Bredon gaped vaguely at the skylight and up and down the passage, surrounded, like the one on the floor above, with glass partitions. “Oh, yes, to be sure. It's very well-lit. Of course he must have slipped. Dashed easy thing to slip on a staircase. Did he have nails in his shoes?”

“I don't know. I wasn't noticing his shoes. I was thinking about picking up the pieces.”

“Did you pick him up?”

“Well, I heard the racket when he went down, and rushed out and got there one of the first. My name's Daniels, by the way.”

“Oh, is it? Daniels, oh, yes. But didn't it come out at the inquest about his shoes?”

“I don't remember anything about it.”

“Oh! then I suppose he didn't have nails. I mean, if he had, somebody would have mentioned it. I mean, it would be a sort of excuse, wouldn't it?”

“Excuse for whom?” demanded Daniels.

“For the firm; I mean, when people put up staircases and other people come tumbling down them, the insurance people generally want to know why. At least, I'm told so. I've never fallen down any staircases myself—touch wood.”