man duplicity in your books that you never dream
of trying to be wise as a serpent in your own affairs. The author who
will split legal hairs by way of brightening his work will sign a
contract with a publisher that draws tears from his lawyer when a dispute
arises. Why be so candid with a rank outsider, like Siddle?"

"I distrust the man. Doris distrusts him, too."

"So you take him into your confidence."

"No. I merely give him chapter and verse to prove that his interference
is useless."

"Have you engaged a lawyer for Wednesday"

"No. Why should I? My hands are clean."

"But your clothes may suffer if enough mud is slung at you. Wire to this
man in the morning, and mention my name--Winter, of course, not
Franklin."

"Codlin's your friend, not Short," said Hart. "Sorry. It's a time-worn
jape, but it fitted in admirably."

The detective scribbled a name and address on a card.

"I don't think you need worry about Ingerman," he went on, "though it's
well to be prepared. A smart solicitor can stop irrelevant statements,
especially if ready for them. But there must be no more of this
heart-opening to all and sundry, Mr. Grant. Siddle is your rival. He,
too, wants to marry Miss Martin, and regards you now as the only
stumbling-block."

"Siddle! That stick!" gasped Grant.

"Ridiculous, indeed monstrous," agreed Winter, rather heatedly, "but
nevertheless a candidate for the lady's hand."

Then he laughed. Peters's keen eyes were watching him, and Wally Hart was
giving more heed to the conversation than was revealed by a fixed stare
at the negro's head in meerschaum.

"You've bothered me," he went on. "I thought you had more sense. Don't
you understand that all these bits of gossip reach Ingerman through the
filter of the snug at the Hare and Hounds?"

"The man's visit was unexpected, and his mission even more so. I just
blurted out the facts."

"Well, you've rendered the services of a solicitor absolutely
indispensable now."

Grant, by no means so clear-headed these days as was his wont, followed
the scent of Winter's red herring like the youngest hound in a pack; but
Wally Hart and Peters, lookers-on in this chase, harked back to the
right line.

"May I--" they both broke in simultaneously.

"Place to the fourth estate," bowed Hart solemnly.

"Thanks," said the journalist. "May I put a question, Winter?"

"A score, if you like."

"Totting up the average of the murder cases in which Furneaux and y