"Later! Later! Meantime, bread and meat."
Jarman looted the kitchen, and, having sent Miss Cork to bed, boiled the kettle and returned with a tray. This he placed before his guest, and stood over him while Frank forced ham and bread down a most unwilling throat. Then he gave the young man a pipe, mixed him a second glass of whisky of the weakest description, and demanded explanations.
"I can give them in one word," said Frank, now more composed. "Murder!"
Jarman stared again, and whistled. Then he went to see that the door was closed, and returned to his seat. "Who have you been killing?"
"No one. But I'm in danger of being accused. I am innocent--I swear I am innocent, Eustace?"
"All right, old man," replied Jarman, patting his junior on the back. "I know you wouldn't come to me if you were guilty."
"If I were, would you shelter me?"
"H'm! Depends upon the kind of murder. I don't mind a fair fight sort o' killing. 'Fact, I've shot a man or two myself in the Great Waste Lands."
"But I didn't shoot Starth. I really didn't."
"Starth! What, is he--"