I am here_ vice _Mr. Furneaux, who is engaged on other phases of the same inquiry. My business is absolutely unknown. I figure at the inn as “Mr. W. Franklin, Argentina.” Indeed, Mr. Furneaux left the village because he realized the difficulties facing him in that respect. Now, I trust you, and I hope you will justify my faith. You know Superintendent Fowler. I want you to meet me and him this afternoon at two o’clock at the crossroads beyond the mill. A closed car will be in waiting, and we can have half an hour’s talk without anyone in Steynholme being the wiser. Remember that this village, like the night, has a thousand eyes. Naturally, I would not trouble you in this way if the cause was not vital to the ends of justice. Whether or not you decide to keep this appointment, I have every confidence that you will respect my wish that_ no one_, other than yourself, shall be informed of my identity. But I believe you will be wise, and come._ _I am, Yours faithfully, J. L. Winter, Chief Inspector, C. I. D., Scotland Yard, S. W._ A card was inclosed, as a sort of credential. But, somehow, it was not needed. Doris had seen “Mr. Franklin” more than once, and she had heard him singing the hymns in church. He looked worthy of credence. His written words had the same honest ring. She resolved to go. Her father, sad to relate, had found three dead queens in the hives. He was busy, but spared a moment to tell her that Mr. Siddle was coming to tea at four o’clock. Doris was rather in a whirl, and seemed to be unnecessarily astonished. “Mr. Siddle! Why?” she gasped. “Why not!” said her father. “It’s not the first time. You can entertain him. I’ll look after the letters.” “I must get some cakes. We have none.” “Well, that’s simple. I wonder if that fellow Hart really understands apiaculture? You might invite him, too.” With that letter in her pocket Doris had suddenly grown wary. Hart and Siddle would not mix, and her woman’s intuition warned her that Siddle had chosen the tea-hour purposely in order to have an uninterrupted conversation with her. She disliked Mr. Siddle, in a negative way, but the very nearness of the detective was stimulating. Let Mr. Siddle come, then, and come alone! “No, dad,” she laughed. “Mr. Hart’s knowledge will be available to-morrow. In his presence, poor Mr. Siddle would be dumb.” Chapter XIII. Concerning Theodore Siddle 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.