The Postmaster's Daughter Part 35

"Who the deuce is that with Miss Martin?" he said, returning her signal.

"Siddle, the chemist," announced Robinson, not too well pleased himself at being "spotted" so openly. "Well, gentlemen, I'll be off," and he vanished by the side path through the laurels.

"Siddle!" repeated Grant vexedly. "So it is. And she dislikes the man, for some reason."

"Let's go and rescue the fair maid," prompted Hart.

"No, no. If Doris wanted me she would let me know."

"How? At the top of her voice?"

"You're far too curious, Wally."

"Semaph.o.r.e, of course," drawled Hart. "When are you going to marry the girl, Jack!"

"As soon as this infernal business has blown over."

"You haven't asked her, I gather?"

"No."

"Tell me when you do, and I'll hie me to London town, though in torrid June. You're unbearable in love."

"The lash of your wit cuts deeply sometimes," said Grant quietly.

"Dash it all, old chap, I was talking at random. Very well. I'll do penance in sackcloth and ashes by remaining here, and applauding your poetic efforts. I'll even help. I'm a dab at sonnets."

Meanwhile, Mr. Siddle had regained his poise.

"I meant nothing offensive to the donor of the beer," he said, tuning his voice to an apologetic note. "But I take it Robinson is conducting certain inquiries, and I imagine that his superiors demand a degree of circ.u.mspection in such conditions. That is all."

"Surely you do not rank with the stupid crowd in its suspicions of Mr.

Grant?" said the girl.

"I'm pleased to think you refuse to cla.s.s me with the gossip-mongers of Steynholme, Doris," was the guarded answer.

There had been no reference to the murder during tea, which was served as soon as the chemist came in. The visitor had tabled a copy of a current medical journal containing an article on the therapeutic qualities of honey, so the talk was lifted at once into an atmosphere far removed from crime. Doris was grateful for his tact. When her father went to the office she brought Mr. Siddle into the garden solely in pursuance of her promise to the detective, though convinced that there would be no outcome save a few labored compliments to herself. And now, by accident, as it were, the death of Adelaide Melhuish thrust itself into their conversation. Perhaps it was her fault.

"No," she said candidly. "No one who has known you for seven years, Mr.

Siddle, could possibly accuse you of spreading scandal."

"Seven years! Is it so long since I came to Steynholme? Sometimes, it appears an age, but more often I fancy the calendar must be in error.

Why, it seems only the other day that I saw you in a short frock, bowling a hoop."

"A tom-boy occupation," laughed Doris. "But dad encouraged that and skipping, as the best possible means of exercise."

"He was right. Look how straight and svelte you are! Few, if any, among our community can have watched your progress to womanhood as closely as I. You see, living opposite, as I do, I kept track of you more intimately than your other neighbors."

Siddle was tr.i.m.m.i.n.g his sails cleverly. The concluding sentence robbed his earlier comments of their sentimental import.

"If we live long enough we may even see each other in the sere and yellow leaf," said Doris flippantly.

"I would ask no greater happiness," came the quiet reply, and Doris could have bitten her tongue for according him that unguarded opening. Suddenly availing herself of the advice which the detective, like Hamlet, had given to the players, she gazed musingly at the fair panorama of The Hollies and its gardens, with the two young men seated on the lawn. By this time Minnie was staging tea, and the picture looked idyllic enough.

Doris saw, out of the tail of her eye, that her companion was watching her furtively, though apparently absorbed in the scene. He moistened his thin lips with his tongue.

"As a study in contrasts, that would be hard to beat," he said, after a long pause.

"Contrasts!" she echoed.

"Well, yes. Even an uncontentious man like myself can hardly fail to compare Sunday afternoon with Tuesday morning."

"Why not Monday night?" she flashed.

"Monday night, in part, remains a mystery yet to be unveiled. I blot Monday night from my mind. I have no alternative, being on the jury which has to arrive at a just verdict. Now, if Fred Elkin were here, he would foam at the mouth."

"Happily, Fred Elkin is _not_ here."

"Ah, I am glad, glad, to hear you say that. You don't like him?"

"I detest him."

"He makes out, to put it mildly, that you are great friends."

"You will oblige me by contradicting the statement. Or--no. One treats that sort of man with contempt."

"I agree with you most heartily. I'm sorry I ever mentioned him."

Yet Doris was well aware that the chemist had dragged in Elkin by the scruff of the neck, probably for the sake of getting him disposed of thoroughly and for all time. Rather on the tiptoe of expectation, she awaited the next move. It was slow in coming, so again she looked wistfully at the distant tea-drinkers. She found slight difficulty in carrying out this portion of the stage directions. Truth to tell, she would gleefully have gone and joined them.

Siddle was not altogether at ease. The conversation was too spasmodic to suit his purpose. Though slow of speech he was nimble of brain, and, knowing Doris so well, he had antic.i.p.ated a livelier duel of wits. In all likelihood, he cursed the tea-party on the lawn. He had not foreseen this drawback. But, being a masterful man, he tackled the situation boldly.

"I seized the opportunity of a friendly chat with you to-day, Doris," he went on, leaning over the fence to inhale the scent of a briar rose. "The story runs through the village that you and your father dined at The Hollies on Friday evening. Is that true?"

Now, Doris had it on reliable authority that Siddle himself had been the runner who spread that story, and the knowledge steeled her heart against him.

"Yes," she said composedly.

"It was kind and neighborly of you to accept the invitation, but a mistake."

She turned and faced him. His expression was baffling. She thought she saw in his sallow, clean-cut features the shadow of a confident smile.

"You mean that this horrid murder should make some difference in the friendship between ourselves and Mr. Grant?" she cried.

"Yes. To you, though to no one else would I speak so plainly, I have no hesitation in saying that Mr. Grant is far, very far, from being clear of responsibility in that matter. Three days from now you will understand what I mean. Evidence will be forthcoming which will put him in a most unenviable light. I am not alleging, or even hinting, that he may be deemed guilty of actual crime. That is for the law to determine.

But I do tell you emphatically that his present heedless att.i.tude will give place to anxiety and dejection. It cannot be otherwise. A somewhat sordid history will be revealed, and his pretense that relations between him and the dead woman ceased three years ago will vanish into thin air.

Believe me, Doris, I am actuated by no motive in this matter other than a desire to further your welfare. I cannot bear even to think of your name being a.s.sociated, in ever so small degree, with that of a man who must be hounded out of his own social circle, if no worse fate is in store for him."

"Good gracious!" cried Doris, genuinely amazed. "How do you come to know all this?"