The Postmaster's Daughter Part 38

"Exactly."

"And am I to keep this knowledge to myself?"

"In whom would you confide?"

"My father, of course."

"I know you better," and the detective's voice took on a profoundly serious note. "Your father would never admit that what he knows to be true of bees is equally true of humanity. You can trust the police to keep a pretty sharp eye on Siddle, of course, but the present is a strenuous period, both for us and for people with maniacal tendencies, so accidents may happen."

"You have distressed me immeasurably," said the girl, striving to pierce the mask of that inscrutable face.

"I meant to," answered Furneaux quietly. "No half measures for me.

I've looked up the asylum record of Mrs. Siddle, senior, and it's not nice reading."

"There was a Mrs. Siddle, junior, then?"

"A Mrs. Theodore Siddle, if one adopts the conventional usage. Yes. She died last month."

"Last month!" gasped Doris, feeling vaguely that she was moving in a maze of deceit and subterfuge.

"On May 25th, to be precise. She lived apart from her husband. I have reason to believe she feared him."

"Yet--"

She hesitated, hardly able to put her jumbled thoughts into words.

"Yes. That's so," said the detective instantly. "Never mind. It's a fairly decent world, taken _en bloc_. I ought to speak with authority. I see enough of the seamy side of it, goodness knows. Now, forewarned is forearmed. Don't be nervous. Don't take risks. Everything will come right in time. Remember, I'm not far away in an emergency. Should I chance to be absent if you need advice, send for Mr. Franklin. You can easily devise some official excuse, a mislaid letter, or an error in a telegram."

"I think I shall feel confident if both of you are near," and the ghost of a smile lit Doris's wan features.

"We're a marvelous combination," grinned Furneaux, reverting at once to his normal impishness. "I am all brain; he is all muscle. Such an alliance prevails against the unG.o.dly."

"Is Mr. Grant in any danger?" inquired Doris suddenly.

"No."

The two looked into each other's eyes. Doris was eager to ask a question, which Furneaux dared her to put. The detective won. She sighed.

"Very well," she said. "I'm to behave. Am I to regard myself as a decoy duck?"

"A duck, anyhow."

She laughed lightly. Furneaux would vouchsafe no further information, it would appear. For a girl of nineteen, Doris was uncommonly gifted with clear, a.n.a.lytical reasoning powers.

The detective returned to the Hare and Hounds, and went upstairs. He met Peters on the landing.

"The devil!" he cried.

"My _dear_ pal!" retorted the journalist.

"Are you living here?"

"Why not?"

"Why not, indeed? Where the eagles are there is the carcase."

"Your misquotation is offensive."

"It was so intended."

"Come and have a drink."

"No."

"I say 'yes.' You'll thank me on your bended knees afterwards. The South American gent is having the time of his life. I've just been to my room for _Whitaker's Almanack_, wherewith a certain Don Walter Hart purposes flooring him."

Wally Hart had, indeed, succeeded in running to earth the Argentine magnate, and was giving Winter a most uncomfortable quarter of an hour.

"Ha!" shouted Hart, when Furneaux came in with Peters. "Here's the pocket marvel who'll answer any question straight off. What is the staple export of the Argentine!"

"How often have you been there?" demanded the detective dryly.

"Six times."

"And you've lived there?" This to Winter.

"Yes," glowered the big man, fearing the worst.

"Then the answer is 'fools,'" cackled Furneaux.

Wally laughed. He had remembered, just in time, that he had no right to claim acquaintance with the representative of Scotland Yard, and there were some farmers present, each of whom had a "likely animal" to offer the buyer of blood stock.

"Gad, I think you're right," he said.

"You wanted me to say 'sheep,' I suppose?"

"Got it, at once."

"As though one valuable horse wasn't worth a thousand sheep."

"Just what my friend, Don Manoel Alcorta, of Los Andes ranch, Catamarca, always held," put in Winter, drawing the bow at a venture.

Hart c.o.c.ked an eye at him.

"Sir," he said, "I would take off my hat, if I wore one in Steynholme, to any man who claims the friendship of Don Manoel Alcorta, a sincere patriot. I suggest that we crack a bottle to his immortal memory."

"My doctor forbids me to touch wine," said Winter mournfully.

"But these bucolic breeders of browns and bays employ wiser medicos, I'll go bail. Landlord, a quart of the best, and six out, as they say in London."