Passing _The Hollies_, he smiled at the notion that Furneaux would undoubtedly have brought Grant to the conclave. It was just the sort of difficult situation in which his colleague would have reveled. But the Chief Inspector was more solid, more circumspect, even, singularly enough, more sensitive to the probable comments of a crusty judge if counsel for the defense contrived to elicit the facts. “Anything fresh?” inquired the superintendent, when a smart car drew up, and Winter entered. Mr. Fowler was in plain clothes, and the blinds were half drawn. No one could possibly recognize either of the occupants unless the car was halted, and the inquisitor literally thrust his head inside. The motor was a private one, borrowed for the occasion. “Yes, a little,” said Winter, as the chauffeur put the engine in gear. “Your man, Robinson, has been drawing Elkin, or Elkin drew him—I am not quite sure which, but think it matterless either way.” He sketched Robinson’s activities briefly, but in sufficient outline. “A new figure has come on the screen—Siddle, the chemist,” he added thoughtfully. “Siddle!” Mr. Fowler was surprised. “Why, he is supposed to be a model of the law-abiding citizen.” “I don’t say he has lost his character in that respect,” said Winter. “Still, he puzzles me. Elkin is a loud-mouthed fool. The verbal bricks he hurls at Grant are generally half baked, and crumble into dust. Hitherto, Siddle has tried to repress him, with a transparent honesty that rather worried me. On Friday night, however, Siddle attacked Grant with poisoned arrows. He did more damage in two minutes than Elkin could achieve in as many months.” “How?” “He showed very clearly that Grant was guilty of gross bad taste in inviting Mr. Martin and his daughter to dinner that evening. I’m inclined to agree with him, if the story has been told fairly. But that is beside the main issue. Siddle aroused the sleeping dogs of the village, and the pack is in full cry again. Grant seems to have been popular here; he had almost recovered from the blow of Miss Melhuish’s death by the straightforward speech he made before the inquest. But Siddle threw him back into the mud by a few skillful words. What is Siddle’s record? Is he a local man?” “I think not. Robinson can tell us.” “Robinson says he ‘believes’ Siddle is a widower. That doesn’t argue long and close knowledge.” “We must look into it. Robinson has been stationed here four years. Siddle is not old, but he has been in business in Steynholme more years than that. But—you’ll pardon me, I’m sure, Mr. Winter—may I take it that you are really interested in the chemist’s history?” The superintendent was perplexed, or he would not have adopted his professional method of semi-apologetic questions with a man from the C.I.D.