ing, jaw dropped a little, at Robson. Robson, round, fatuous-faced, was talking in a high, excited key.
"No; of course, I didn't see him do it—but I see his face as he bent over the old Doctor with his head all covered with blood. If you'd seed that, you wouldn't need to ask who done it. Crickey, I tell you, it scart me! If he didn't do—"
Marston half-turned with the receiver at his ear.
"I'll admit," he said, "it looks kind of queer that young Merton, knowing his father had been murdered half-an-hour ago, hasn't notified any one, and that I can't get any answer from the house now; but if I were you, Robson, I'd go kind of slow with my tongue. Accusing a man of murder is pretty serious business."
"I ain't accusing no one of anything," returned Robson, a little defiantly. "I'm only telling what I seen. And all I've got to say is that if Harold Merton didn't do it, why then—well, I'd like to know who did? "
"I will tell you," said Varge, stepping quietly into the room. "It was I."
