“A week or two only,” I reminded him. “It seems longer, because of all that has happened. That reminds me, Mr. Deville. I wanted to speak to you—about—that Sunday—the murder!”
He shook his head, and whistled to his dogs.
“Can’t talk about it,” he declared. “You ought not to want to.”
“And why not?” I demanded.
“You are not well enough. I don’t wonder that you’ve been ill. You must have been within a few yards of the fellow all the time. Certainly you must not talk about it. Good evening.”
“But there is something I want to ask you,” I continued.
He shook his head. He was already moving away. I called him back.
“Mr. Deville! One moment, please.”
He paused and looked over his shoulder.
“Well!”