“Did you make up that verse straight off, sir,” he asked. “No. It’s a borrowed plume, plucked from an American quill pen.” Hart gave “plume” a French sound, and Robinson was puzzled to know why Grant bade his friend stop profaning a peaceful Sunday afternoon. “You’ll have a glass of beer now?” went on the host. “I don’t mind if I do, sir, though it’s tea-time, and I make it a rule on Sundays to have tea with the missis. A policeman’s hours are broken up, and his wife hardly ever knows when to have a meal ready.” Minnie was summoned. It took her a couple of minutes to draw the beer from a cool cellar. So it chanced that when Doris led Mr. Siddle to the edge of the cliff about twenty-five minutes past four, the first thing they saw was the local police-constable on the lawn of _The Hollies_ putting down a gill of “best Sussex” at a draught. “Well!” cried the chemist icily, “I wonder what Superintendent Fowler would say to that if he knew it?” “What is there particularly wrong about Robinson drinking a glass of beer?” demanded Doris, more alive to the insinuation in Siddle’s words than was quite permissible under the role imposed on her by Winter. She waved her hand to the party on the lawn. Grant, whose eyes ever roved in that direction, had seen her white muslin dress the moment she appeared. “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.” “Semaphore, 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 circumspection 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 class me with the gossip-mongers of Steynholme, Doris,” was the guarded answer.