He shook his head.

"Why don't you speak? Why can't you speak?" she cried angrily.
"Why can't you say something instead of just shaking your head?"

"You see, I've asked you so many questions," he said slowly.
"Perhaps I shall ask you some more some day--which question do you
mean?"

"I mean when you asked me if I had ever met any one who spoke in a
very shrill, high whistling sort of voice? Do you remember?"

"Yes," he said. "You wouldn't tell me."

"Well, I will now," she said. "I did meet a man once with a voice
like that. Do you remember the night you, came here that I drove
away in the car with a packing-case you carried downstairs?"

"Do I--remember?" he gasped, for that memory, and the thought of
how she had driven away into the night with, that grisly thing behind
her on the car had never since left his mind by night or by day.

"Yes," she exclaimed impatiently. "Why do you keep staring so? Are
you as stupid as you choose to look? Do you remember?"

"I remember," he answered heavily. "I remember very well."

"Well, then, the man I took that packing-case to had a voice just
like that--high and shrill, whistling almost."