of credence. His
written words had the same honest ring. She resolved to go.

Her father, sad to relate, had found three dead queens in the hives. He
was busy, but spared a moment to tell her that Mr. Siddle was coming to
tea at four o'clock. Doris was rather in a whirl, and seemed to be
unnecessarily astonished.

"Mr. Siddle! Why?" she gasped.

"Why not!" said her father. "It's not the first time. You can entertain
him. I'll look after the letters."

"I must get some cakes. We have none."

"Well, that's simple. I wonder if that fellow Hart really understands
apiaculture? You might invite him, too."

With that letter in her pocket Doris had suddenly grown wary. Hart and
Siddle would not mix, and her woman's intuition warned her that Siddle
had chosen the tea-hour purposely in order to have an uninterrupted
conversation with her. She disliked Mr. Siddle, in a negative way, but
the very nearness of the detective was stimulating. Let Mr. Siddle come,
then, and come alone!

"No, dad," she laughed. "Mr. Hart's knowledge will be available
to-morrow. In his presence, poor Mr. Siddle would be dumb."

CHAPTER XIII

CONCERNING THEODOEE SIDDLE

Winter, being a cheerful cynic, had not erred when he appealed to that
love of mystery which, especially if it is spiced with a hint of harmless
intrigue, is innate in every feminine heart. Indeed, he was so assured of
the success of his somewhat dramatic move that as he walked to a
rendezvous arranged with Superintendent Fowler on the Knoleworth road he
reviewed carefully certain arguments meant to secure Doris's assistance.

Passing The Hollies, he smiled at the notion that Furneaux would
undoubtedly have brought Grant to the conclave. It was just the sort of
difficult situation in which his colleague would have reveled. But the
Chief Inspector was more solid, more circumspect, even, singularly
enough, more sensitive to the probable comments of a crusty judge if
counsel for the defense contrived to elicit the facts.

"Anything fresh?" inquired the superintendent, when a smart car drew up,
and Winter entered.

Mr. Fowler was in plain clothes, and the blinds were half drawn. No one
could possibly recognize either of the occupants unless the car was
halted, and the inquisitor literally thrust his head inside. The motor
was a private one, borrowed for the occasion.

"Yes, a little," said Winter, as the chauffeur put the engine in gear.
"Your man, Robinson, has been d