“He doesn’t speak of her? Is that it? One would have thought that in a house where he is well known—” “We don’t really know him well. No one does, I think.” “You’ve invited him to tea, at any rate,” laughed Winter. “No,” said Doris. “He invited himself. At least, so I gathered from dad.” “Ah, well. He feels lonely, no doubt, and wishes to chat about recent strange events in Steynholme. And that brings me to the reason why I sought this chat under such peculiar conditions. You realize my handicap, Miss Martin? If I were seen talking to you, or even entering your house as apart from the post office, people would begin to wonder. You follow that, don’t you?” Yes, Doris did follow it. What she did not follow was the veiled admiration in Superintendent Fowler’s glance at the detective. Those few inconsequential questions had shed a flood of light on Siddle’s past and present, yet the informant was blissfully unaware of their real purport. And the way was opened so deftly. The purchase of a chemist’s business would almost certainly be negotiated through a local lawyer. Let him be found, and Siddle’s pre-Steynholme days could be “looked into,” as the police phrase has it. The superintendent had the rare merit of being candid with himself. He had no previous experience of Scotland Yard men or methods, and was inclined to be skeptical about Furneaux. But Winter’s prompt use of a chance opening, and the restraint which cut off the investigation before the girl could suspect any ulterior motive, displayed a technique which the Sussex Constabulary had few opportunities of acquiring. “Now, Miss Martin,” began Winter, “if ever you have the misfortune to fall ill—touch wood, please—and call in a doctor, you’ll tell him the facts, eh?” “Why consult him at all, if I don’t?” she smiled. “Exactly. To-day I’m somewhat in the position of a Harley-street specialist, summoned to assist an eminent local practitioner in Dr. Fowler. That’s a sort of gentle preliminary, leading up to the disagreeable duty of putting some questions of a personal nature. What you may answer will not go beyond ourselves. I promise you that. You will not be quoted, or requested to prove your statements. Such a thing would be absurd. If I were really a doctor, and you needed my advice, you might easily describe your symptoms all wrong. It would be my business to listen, and deduce the truth, and I would never dream of rating you for having misled me. You see my point?” “Yes, but Mr. Win—Mr. Franklin, I know nothing whatever about the murder.” “I’m sure you don’t. It was a wicked trick of Fate that took you to Mr. Grant’s garden last Monday night.”