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 drawing Elkin, or Elkin drew him—I am not quite sure which, but think it matterless either way.”

He sketched Robinson’s activities briefly, but in sufficient outline.

“A new figure has come on the screen—Siddle, the chemist,” he added thoughtfully.

“Siddle!” Mr. Fowler was surprised. “Why, he is supposed to be a model of the law-abiding citizen.”

“I don’t say he has lost his character in that respect,” said Winter. “Still, he puzzles me. Elkin is a loud-mouthed fool. The verbal bricks he hurls at Grant are generally half baked, and crumble into dust. Hitherto, Siddle has tried to repress him, with a transparent honesty that rather worried me. On Friday night, however, Siddle attacked Grant with poisoned arrows. He did more damage in two minutes than Elkin could achieve in as many months.”

“How?”

“He showed very clearly that Grant was guilty of gross bad taste in inviting Mr. Martin and his daughter to dinner that evening. I’m inclined to agree with him, if the story has been told fairly. But that is beside the main issue. Siddle aroused the sleeping dogs of the village, and the pack is in full cry again. Grant seems to have been popular here; he had almost recovered from the blow of Miss Melhuish’s death by the straightforward speech he made before the inquest. But Siddle threw him back into the mud by a few skillful words. What is Siddle’s record? Is he a local man?”

“I think not. Robinson can tell us.”

“Robinson says he ‘believes’ Siddle is a widower. That doesn’t argue long and close knowledge.”

“We must look into it. Robinson has been stationed here four years. Siddle is not old, but he has been in business in Steynholme more years than that. But—you’ll pardon me, I’m sure, Mr. Winter—may I take it that you are really interested in the chemist’s history?”

The superintendent was perplexed, or he would not have adopted his professional method of semi-apologetic questions with a man from the C.I.D.

“I hardly know what I’m interested in,” laughed Winter. “Grant didn’t kill the lady. I shall be slow to credit Elkin with being the scoundrel he looks. Siddle, and Tomlin, if you please, are regarded as starters in the Doris Martin Matrimonial Stakes, and I don’t think Tomlin could ever murder anything but the King’s English. It is Siddle’s volte face that bothers me.”

“Um!” murmured Mr. Fowler. He was not an uneducated man, but volte face, correctly pronounced, was unfamiliar in his ears.

“The change was so marked,” went on the detective. “I gather that Siddle is a stickler for charity and fair dealing. He didn’t abandon the role, of course. It was the sheer ingenuity of his method that caught my attention. So I simply catalogue him for research.”

“Has Miss Martin promised to meet us?” inquired the other, feeling that he was on the track of volte face.

“No. But there she is!” cried Winter. “She has just heard the car. Tell your chauffeur to slow up. The road is empty otherwise. By the way, you help her in. She might be a bit shy of me, and I don’t want a second’s delay.”

Winter’s judgment was not at fault. Doris was feeling a trifle uncertain, seeing that she was about to encounter a complete stranger. Moreover, she had come a good half mile from the shop whence the cakes for tea were to be procured at the back door, and as a favor. Her eyes were fixed on the slowing car with a timid anxiety that betrayed no small degree of doubt as to the outcome of this Sunday afternoon escapade. She was pale and nervous. At that moment Doris wished herself safe at home again.

“One word,” broke in the superintendent hurriedly. “Why are you so sure that Grant is innocent, Mr. Winter?”

“I’m sure of nothing with regard to this case. But I have great faith in Furneaux’s flair for the true scent. It has never failed yet.”

Mr. Fowler wished his companion would not use such uncommon words. However, he got out, and took off his hat with a courteous sweep. Doris had to look twice at him. Hitherto, she had always seen him in uniform. Winter smiled at the unmistakable expression of relief in her face. She was almost self-possessed as she took the seat by his side.

“Good day, Mr. Winter,” she said.

“Mr. Franklin, please. Better become used to my pseudonym.... Plenty of room for your feet, Mr. Fowler? That’s it. Now we’re comfy. The chauffeur will bring us back here in half an hour, Miss Martin. Will that suit your convenience?”

“Oh, yes. I am free till nearly four o’clock. We have a guest to tea then.”

“I have a well-developed bump of curiosity these days. Who is it, may I ask?”

“Mr. Siddle, the local chemist.”

“Indeed. An old friend, I suppose?”

“We have known him seven years, ever since he came to Steynholme.”

“Ah. He is not a native of the place?”

“No. He bought Mr. Benson’s business. He’s a Londoner, I believe.”

“Is there—a Mrs. Siddle?”

“No. I—er—that is to say, gossip has it that he was married, but his wife died.”

“He doesn’t speak of her? Is that it? One would have thought that in a house where he is well known—”

“We don’t really know him well. No one does, I think.”

“You’ve invited him to tea, at any rate,” laughed Winter.

“No,” said Doris. “He invited himself. At least, so I gathered from dad.”

“Ah, well. He feels lonely, no doubt, and wishes to chat about recent strange events in Steynholme. And that brings me to the reason why I sought this chat under such peculiar conditions. You realize my handicap, Miss Martin? If I were seen talking to you, or even entering your house as apart from the post office, people would begin to wonder. You follow that, don’t you?”

Yes, Doris did follow it. What she did not follow was the veiled admiration in Superintendent Fowler’s glance at the detective. Those few inconsequential questions had shed a flood of light on Siddle’s past and present, yet the informant was blissfully unaware of their real purport. And the way was opened so deftly. The purchase of a chemist’s business would almost certainly be negotiated through a local lawyer. Let him be found, and Siddle’s pre-Steynholme days could be “looked into,” as the police phrase has it. The superintendent had the rare merit of being candid with himself. He had no previous experience of Scotland Yard men or methods, and was inclined to be skeptical about Furneaux. But Winter’s prompt use of a chance opening, and the restraint which cut off the investigation before the girl could suspect any ulterior motive, displayed a technique which the Sussex Constabulary had few opportunities of acquiring.

“Now, Miss Martin,” began Winter, “if ever you have the misfortune to fall ill—touch wood, please—and call in a doctor, you’ll tell him the facts, eh?”

“Why consult him at all, if I don’t?” she smiled.

“Exactly. To-day I’m somewhat in the position of a Harley-street specialist, summoned to assist an eminent local practitioner in Dr. Fowler. That’s a sort of gentle preliminary, leading up to the disagreeable duty of putting some questions of a personal nature. What you may answer will not go beyond ourselves. I promise you that. You will not be quoted, or requested to prove your statements. Such a thing would be absurd. If I were really a doctor, and you needed my advice, you might easily describe your symptoms all wrong. It would be my business to listen, and deduce the truth, and I would never dream of rating you for having misled me. You see my point?”

“Yes, but Mr. Win—Mr. Franklin, I know nothing whatever about the murder.”

“I’m sure you don’t. It was a wicked trick of Fate that took you to Mr. Grant’s garden last Monday night.”

“It was really an astronomical almanac,” retorted Doris, who now felt a growing confidence in this nice-spoken official. “Sirius is a star remarkable for its beautiful changing lights, and on Monday evening was at its best. I think I ought to explain,” and she blushed delightfully, “that the village gossip about Mr. Grant and me is entirely mistaken. We are not—well, I had better use plain English—we are not lovers. My father and I are just on close, friendly terms with Mr. Grant. I—my position hardly warrants even that relationship with an author of some distinction. But please set aside any notion of us as likely to become engaged. For one thing, it is preposterous. For another, I shall not leave my father.”

Poor Doris! She little guessed how accurately this skilled student of human nature read the hidden thought behind that vehement protest. Even the note of vague rebellion against social disabilities was pathetic yet illuminating. Of course, he took her quite seriously.

“Let us keep to the hard road of fact,” he said. “What you really mean is that Mr. Grant has never made love to you. But I must be candid, young lady. There is no earthly reason why he shouldn’t, though I could name offhand half a dozen why he should.... Well, well, I must not pay compliments. My friend, Mr. Furneaux, can manage that with much greater facility, being half a Frenchman. And now I’m going to say an unpleasant thing. I ask your forgiveness in advance. Both Mr. Furneaux and I agree in the opinion that your imaginary love affair is indissolubly bound up with the mystery of Miss Melhuish’s death. In a word, I have brought you here today to discuss your prospective marriage, and nothing else. That astonishes you, eh? Well, it’s the truth, as I shall proceed to make clear. There’s a Mr. Fred Elkin, for instance—”

Doris uttered a little laugh of dismay. Winter’s emphatic words had astounded her, but the horse-dealer’s name acted as comic relief.

“I can’t bear the man,” she protested.

“I have no doubt. But you ought to know that he is loudly proclaiming his determination to marry you before the year is out.”

The girl’s face reddened again, and her eyes sparkled.

“I wouldn’t marry him if he were a peer of the realm,” she said indignantly.

“Quite so. But he is an avowed suitor. Now don’t be vexed. Has he never declared his intentions to you?”

“He would never dare. I sing and act a little, at village concerts and dramatic performances, and he has annoyed me at times by an officious pretense that he was deputed by my father to see me home. I came here quite a little girl, so people learnt to use my Christian name. I don’t object to it at all. But I simply hate hearing it on Mr. Elkin’s lips.”

“Exit Fred!” said Winter solemnly. “Next!”

Doris, after a period of calm, was now profoundly uncomfortable. This kind of prying was the last thing she had expected. She had come prepared to defend Grant, but, beyond one exceedingly personal reference, the detective had studiously shut him out of the conversation.

“What am I to say?” she cried. “Do you want a list of all the young men who make sheep’s eyes at me?”

“No. I can get that from the Census Bureau. Come, now, Miss Martin. You know. Has any man in the village led you to suspect, shall we put it? that sometime or other, he might ask you to become his wife?”

Lo, and behold! Doris’s pretty eyes filled with tears. Superintendent Fowler was so pleased at hearing Scotland Yard introducing a parenthetical query into its sentences that he, sitting opposite, was taken aback when Winter said in a fatherly way:

“I’ve been rather clumsy, I’m afraid. But it cannot be helped. I must go blundering on. I’m groping in the dark, you know, but it’s a thousand pities I shall have to tread on your toes.”

“It isn’t that,” sobbed Doris. “I hate to put my thoughts into words. That’s all. There is a man whom I’m—afraid of.”

“Siddle?”

She turned on Winter a face of sudden awe.

“How can you possibly guess?” she said wonderingly, and sheer bewilderment dried her tears.

“My business is nine-tenths guesswork. At any rate, we are on firm ground now. If you could please yourself, I suppose, Mr. Siddle would not come to tea to-day!”

“He certainly would not,” declared the girl emphatically.

“You believe he is coming for a purpose?”

“Yes.”

“Elkin—I must drag him in again for an instant—pretends that the commotion aroused in the village by this murder would incline you favorably to a proposal of marriage. Mr. Siddle may have discovered some virtue in the theory.”

“Did Mr. Elkin really hint that I needed him as a shield?”

Doris was genuinely angry now. She little imagined that Winter was playing on her emotions with a master hand.

“Don’t waste any wrath on Elkin,” he soothed her. “The fellow isn’t worth it. But his crude idea might be developed more subtly by an abler man.”

“I think it odd that Mr. Siddle should choose to-day, of all days, for a visit,” she admitted.

Winter relapsed into silence for a while. The car was running through a charming countryside, and a glimpse of the sea was obtainable from the crest of each hill. Mr. Fowler was too circumspect to break in on the thread of his coadjutor’s thoughts. The inquiry had taken a curious turn, and was momentarily beyond his grasp.

“It’s singular, but it’s true,” said the detective musingly when next he spoke, “that I am now going to ask you to act differently than was in my mind when I sought this interview. I should vastly like to be present when Siddle bares his heart to you this afternoon.

“I can invite you to tea.”

“Alas! that won’t serve our ends. But, if you feel you have a purpose, you will be nerved to deal with him. Bring him out into that secluded garden of yours—”

“The first thing he will suggest,” and Doris’s voice waxed unconsciously bitter. “He knows that dad will be busy with the mails for an hour after tea.”

“Good!”

“I think it bad, most disagreeable.”

“You won’t find the position so awkward if you are playing a part. And that is what I want—a bit of clever acting. Lean on those railings, and make Siddle believe that your heart is on Mr. Grant’s lawn. You know the kind of thing I mean. Dreamy eyes, listless manner, inattention, with smiling apologies. You will annoy Siddle, and a cautious man in a temper becomes less cautious. Force him to avow his real thoughts. You will learn something, trust me.”

“About what?”

There were no tears in Doris’s eyes. They were wide open in wonderment.

“About his attitude to this tragedy. Do this, and you will be giving Mr. Grant the greatest possible help. He needs it. Next Wednesday, at the adjourned inquest, he will be put on the rack. Ingerman will fee counsel to be vindictive, merciless. Such men are to be hired. Their reputation is built up on the slaughter of reputations. I want to understand Siddle before Wednesday. By the way, what’s his other name?”

“Theodore.”

“Theodore Siddle. Unusual. Well, your half hour is nearly up. Will you do what I ask?”

“I’ll try. May I put one question?”

“Yes.”

“You said you had something altogether different in view before we met. What was it?”

“I’ll tell you—let me see—I’ll tell you on Thursday.”

“Why not now?”

“Because it is the hardest thing in the world for a woman to be single-minded, in the limited sense of concentration, I mean. Focus your wits on Siddle to-day. I don’t suggest any plan. I leave that to your own intelligence. Vex him, and let him talk.”

“Vex him!”

“Yes. What man won’t get mad if he notices that his best girl is thinking about a rival.”

This time Doris did not blush. She was troubled and serious, very serious.

“I’ll do what I can,” she promised. “When shall I see you again?”

“Soon. There’s no hurry. All this is preparatory for Wednesday.”

“Am I to tell my father nothing?”

“Please yourself. Not at present. I recommend you.”

The car had stopped. It sped on when Doris alighted. She would be home with her cakes at three o’clock, and Mr. Martin would never have noticed her absence.

“A fine bit of work, if I may say so,” exclaimed Fowler appreciatively. “But I am jiggered if I can imagine what you’re driving at.”

Winter was cutting the end off a big cigar. He finished the operation to his liking before answering earnestly:

“We stand or fall by the result of that girl’s efforts. Furneaux thinks so, and I agree with him absolutely. After five days, where are we, Mr. Fowler? In the dark, plus a brigand’s hat and hair. But there’s a queer belief in some parts of England that a phosphorescent gleam shows at night over a deep pool in which a dead body lies. That’s just how I feel about Siddle. The man’s an enigma. What sort of place is Steynholme for a chemist of his capacities? Dr. Foxton has the highest regard for him professionally, and I’m told he doctors people for miles around. Yet he lives the life of a recluse. An old woman comes by day to prepare his meals, and tidy the house and shop. His sole relaxation is an hour of an evening in the village inn, his visits there being uninterrupted since the murder. He was there on the night of the murder, too. For the rest, he is alone, shut off from the world. Without knowing it, he’s going to fall into deep waters to-day, and he’ll emit sparks, or I’m a Chinaman.... I’ll leave you here. Good-by! See you on Tuesday, after lunch.”

The superintendent drove on alone. He pondered the Steynholme affair in all its bearings, but mostly did he weigh up Winter and Furneaux. At last, he sighed.

“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. “Your ideas and mine clash in some respects. I look on a well-grilled steak as a gift from Heaven, and after it, or before it—I don’t care which—let me have three hours whipping a good trout stream. With the right cast of flies I could show a fine bag from this very stretch of water.”

“Why not ask Mr. Grant’s permission? It would be interesting to learn whether he will allow others to try their luck.”

Mr. Siddle strolled on. Winter bent over, keen to discern the gray-backed fish which must be lurking in those clear depths and rippling shallows.