"I'm sorry I kept you waiting, gentlemen," he said, waving his hand, "but my health, you know. I'm a mere wreck. I don't want to be jarred on. Pray be seated! Mr. Axton, you don't look well. Mr.—Mr.—"
"Fanks," said that gentleman, introducing himself, "Octavius Fanks, detective."
"Oh, indeed," replied Spolger, starting, "a detective, eh! I think I've seen your name in the papers lately."
"Yes," said Axton, bluntly, "in connection with the Jarlchester affair."
"Oh, indeed," repeated their host once more; "suicide, I believe, although Mr. Melstane did look consumptive. I incline to the latter. Now which idea do you favour, Mr. Fanks—suicide or consumption?"
"Neither! It was a case of murder."
"Murder!"
Mr. Spolger jumped up in his chair as if he had been shot, and his face turned a chalky white.
"Pooh pooh!" he said at length, with an attempt at jocularity, "absurd, monstrous! The jury said suicide."
"I'm aware of that," responded Fanks, coolly, "but I don't agree with the jury. Sebastian Melstane was murdered."