hed.

"London ways, and London books, and London detectives!" he muttered.
"We're not up to date in Sussex. Now, if I could please myself, I'd be
hot-foot after Elkin. I see what Winter has in his mind, but surely Elkin
fills the bill, and Siddle doesn't.... What was that word--volt what!"

Doris was lucky. She met Mr. Siddle as she emerged from the back passage
to the cake-shop. Resolving instantly that if an unpleasant thing had to
be done it should at least be done well, she smiled brightly.

"See what you have driven me to--breaking the Sabbath," she cried,
holding up the bag of cakes.

"Tea and bread-and-butter with you would be a feast for the gods,"
said Siddle.

"Now you're adapting Omar Khayyam."

"Who's he?"

"A Persian poet of long ago."

"I never read poetry. But, if your tastes lie that way, I'll accomplish
some more adaptation."

"Oh, no, please. Cakes for you, Mr. Siddle; poets for giddy young
things like me."

There was a sting in the words. Doris preened herself on having carried
out the detective's instructions to the letter thus far.

Arrived in the house she found her father still in the garden, examining
some larvae under a microscope. He looked severe rather than studious.
He might have been an omnipotent being who had detected a malefactor in
a criminal act. Was Steynholme and its secret felon being regarded in
that way by the providence which, for some inscrutable purpose,
permitted, yet would infallibly punish, a dreadful murder? She was a
girl of devout mind, and the notion was appalling in its direct
application to current events.

In the meantime the chemist, evidently taking a Sunday afternoon
constitutional, came on Winter, who was leaning on a wall of the bridge
and looking down stream--Grant's house being on the left.

He would have passed, in his wonted unobtrusive way, but the detective
hailed him with a cheery "Good day, Mr. Siddle. Are you a fisherman?"

"No, Mr. Franklin, I'm not," he answered.

"Well, now, I'm surprised. You are just the sort of man whom I should
expect to find attached to a rod and line--even watching a float."

"I tried once when I was younger, but I could neither impale a worm nor
extract a hook. My gorge rose against either practice. I am a vegetarian,
for the same reason. If it were not for this disturbing tragedy you would
have heard Hobbs, the butcher, rallying me about my rabbit-meat, as he
calls my food."

"Well, well!" laughed Winter.