Just then there was a rending, tearing sound from the corner and
a muttered ejaculation. I looked up in time to see Mr. Harbison
throw up his arms, make a futile attempt to regain his balance,
and disappear over the edge of the roof. One instant he was
standing there, splendid, superb; the next, the corner of the
parapet was empty, all that stood there was a broken, splintered
post and a tangle of wires.

I could not have moved at first; at least, it seemed hours before
the full significance of the thing penetrated my dazed brain.
When I got up I seemed to walk, to crawl, with leaden weights
holding back my feet.

When I got to the corner I had to catch the post for support. I
knew somebody was saying, "Oh, how terrible!" over and over. It
was only afterward that I knew it had been myself. And then some
other voice was saying, "Don't be alarmed. Please don't be
frightened. I'm all right."

I dared to look over the parapet, finally, and instead of a
crushed and unspeakable body, there was Mr. Harbison, sitting
about eight feet below me, with his feet swinging into space and
a long red scratch from the corner of his eye across his cheek.
There was a sort of mansard there, with windows, and just enough
coping to keep him from rolling off.

"I thought you had fallen--all the way," I gasped, trying to keep
my lips from trembling. "I--oh, don't dangle your feet like
that!"