"By whom?"
"That's the mystery."
Spolger said nothing, but wriggled uneasily in his chair under the somewhat embarrassing gaze of his visitors, and at length burst out into feeble protests against their candour.
"Why do you speak to me like this? I don't know anything about murders. They upset my nerves. I'm quite unstrung with all I've come through. What with Miss Marson's illness, and Melstane's death, and all kind of things, I'm quite uneasy in my mind."
"What about?" asked Fanks, sharply.
"I've mentioned what about," retorted Spolger, tartly. "I wish you would go away."
"So we will when you've answered our questions."
"I won't answer any questions."
"Oh, yes, you will. It will be wiser for you to do so."
"I—I—don't understand," stammered Spolger, feebly.