“I hardly know what I’m interested in,” laughed Winter. “Grant didn’t kill the lady. I shall be slow to credit Elkin with being the scoundrel he looks. Siddle, and Tomlin, if you please, are regarded as starters in the Doris Martin Matrimonial Stakes, and I don’t think Tomlin could ever murder anything but the King’s English. It is Siddle’s _volte face_ that bothers me.” “Um!” murmured Mr. Fowler. He was not an uneducated man, but _volte face_, correctly pronounced, was unfamiliar in his ears. “The change was so marked,” went on the detective. “I gather that Siddle is a stickler for charity and fair dealing. He didn’t abandon the role, of course. It was the sheer ingenuity of his method that caught my attention. So I simply catalogue him for research.” “Has Miss Martin promised to meet us?” inquired the other, feeling that he was on the track of _volte face_. “No. But there she is!” cried Winter. “She has just heard the car. Tell your chauffeur to slow up. The road is empty otherwise. By the way, you help her in. She might be a bit shy of me, and I don’t want a second’s delay.” Winter’s judgment was not at fault. Doris _was_ feeling a trifle uncertain, seeing that she was about to encounter a complete stranger. Moreover, she had come a good half mile from the shop whence the cakes for tea were to be procured at the back door, and as a favor. Her eyes were fixed on the slowing car with a timid anxiety that betrayed no small degree of doubt as to the outcome of this Sunday afternoon escapade. She was pale and nervous. At that moment Doris wished herself safe at home again. “One word,” broke in the superintendent hurriedly. “Why are you so sure that Grant is innocent, Mr. Winter?” “I’m sure of nothing with regard to this case. But I have great faith in Furneaux’s flair for the true scent. It has never failed yet.” Mr. Fowler wished his companion would not use such uncommon words. However, he got out, and took off his hat with a courteous sweep. Doris had to look twice at him. Hitherto, she had always seen him in uniform. Winter smiled at the unmistakable expression of relief in her face. She was almost self-possessed as she took the seat by his side. “Good day, Mr. Winter,” she said. “Mr. Franklin, please. Better become used to my pseudonym.... Plenty of room for your feet, Mr. Fowler? That’s it. Now we’re comfy. The chauffeur will bring us back here in half an hour, Miss Martin. Will that suit your convenience?” “Oh, yes. I am free till nearly four o’clock. We have a guest to tea then.” “I have a well-developed bump of curiosity these days. Who is it, may I ask?” “Mr. Siddle, the local chemist.” “Indeed. An old friend, I suppose?” “We have known him seven years, ever since he came to Steynholme.” “Ah. He is not a native of the place?” “No. He bought Mr. Benson’s business. He’s a Londoner, I believe.” “Is there—a Mrs. Siddle?” “No. I—er—that is to say, gossip has it that he was married, but his wife died.”