"What is it?"
"Come round here. It's important."
"What is it?" she asked wearily again, when she had joined him behind the green dyke.
"It's this, Nance. You—you know I want you. I've always wanted you—"
"Oh—don't!" she cried, with protesting hand. "This is no time. Peter Mauger, for—"
"Wait a bit! Here's how it is. Doctor says Tom was killed by some one beating his head in with a hammer or something of the kind. Now who beat his head in? Who would be most likely to beat his head in? Not me, for we were mates. Some one that hated him. Some one that he was always quarrelling with—" Her face had grown so white that there was no colour even in the trembling lips. She stared at him with terrified eyes.
"You know who I mean," he said. "If it wasn't him that did it I don't know who it was."
"It wasn't," she jerked vehemently.
"You'd wish so, of course. But—Look here!—I'm pretty sure they met again last night after—"
"Yes, they met, and Tom tried to fight him—"