“That is exceedingly good of you,” said Siddle gratefully. “You, as a Londoner, will understand that such a telegram from—er—Horton is not the sort of thing one would like to become known even in the most limited circle.” “You can depend on me, sir.” Siddle hastened back to his shop. The telegraphist looked after him. “Queer!” he mused. “Miss Doris guessed him at once. Phi-ew, I must be careful! This village contains surprises.” Doris, watching from an upper room, saw the visitor, and timed him. She imagined he had dispatched an answer. Being a woman, she sought enlightenment a few minutes later. “Mr. Siddle came in,” she said tentatively. “Yes,” said the specialist, smiling. “And I agree with you, Miss Martin. We mustn’t talk about telegrams, even among ourselves, unless it is necessary departmentally.” Doris was silenced, but she read the riddle correctly. The chemist was particularly anxious that no Steynholme resident should be made aware of his mother’s death. She wondered why. She was enlightened when Furneaux paid a call about tea-time. She took him into the garden. The lawn at _The Hollies_ was empty. “Well, you entertained an acquaintance yesterday?” he began. “Yes. Am I to tell you what happened?” “Not a great deal, I imagine,” he said, with a puzzling laugh. “No, but I annoyed him, as Mr.——” “No names!” broke in the detective hastily. “Names, especially modern ones, destroy romance. Even the Georgian method of using initials, or leaving out vowels, lend an air of intrigue to the veriest balderdash.” “But no one can overhear us,” was the somewhat surprised comment. “How true!” said Furneaux. “Pardon me, Miss Martin. Tell the story in your own way.” Doris had a good memory. She was invariably letter-perfect in a play after a couple of rehearsals, and could prompt others if they faltered. The detective listened in silence while she repeated the conversation between Siddle and herself. He took no notes. In fact, he hardly ever did make any record in a case unless it was essential to prove the exact words of a suspected person. “Good!” he said, when she had finished. “That sounds like the complete text.” “I don’t think I have left out anything of importance—that is, if a single word of it _is_ important.” “Oh, heaps,” he assured her. “It’s even better than I dared hope. Can you tell me if Siddle’s mother is dead yet?” The question found Doris so thoroughly unprepared that she blurted out: “Have you had a telegram, too, then?”