“We stand or fall by the result of that girl’s efforts. Furneaux thinks so, and I agree with him absolutely. After five days, where are we, Mr. Fowler? In the dark, plus a brigand’s hat and hair. But there’s a queer belief in some parts of England that a phosphorescent gleam shows at night over a deep pool in which a dead body lies. That’s just how I feel about Siddle. The man’s an enigma. What sort of place is Steynholme for a chemist of his capacities? Dr. Foxton has the highest regard for him professionally, and I’m told he doctors people for miles around. Yet he lives the life of a recluse. An old woman comes by day to prepare his meals, and tidy the house and shop. His sole relaxation is an hour of an evening in the village inn, his visits there being uninterrupted since the murder. He was there on the night of the murder, too. For the rest, he is alone, shut off from the world. Without knowing it, he’s going to fall into deep waters to-day, and he’ll emit sparks, or I’m a Chinaman.... I’ll leave you here. Good-by! See you on Tuesday, after lunch.” The superintendent drove on alone. He pondered the Steynholme affair in all its bearings, but mostly did he weigh up Winter and Furneaux. At last, he sighed. “London ways, and London books, and London detectives!” he muttered. “We’re not up to date in Sussex. Now, if I could please myself, I’d be hot-foot after Elkin. I see what Winter has in his mind, but surely Elkin fills the bill, and Siddle doesn’t.... What was that word—volt what!” Doris was lucky. She met Mr. Siddle as she emerged from the back passage to the cake-shop. Resolving instantly that if an unpleasant thing had to be done it should at least be done well, she smiled brightly. “See what you have driven me to—breaking the Sabbath,” she cried, holding up the bag of cakes. “Tea and bread-and-butter with you would be a feast for the gods,” said Siddle. “Now you’re adapting Omar Khayyam.” “Who’s he?” “A Persian poet of long ago.” “I never read poetry. But, if your tastes lie that way, I’ll accomplish some more adaptation.” “Oh, no, please. Cakes for you, Mr. Siddle; poets for giddy young things like me.” There was a sting in the words. Doris preened herself on having carried out the detective’s instructions to the letter thus far. Arrived in the house she found her father still in the garden, examining some larvae under a microscope. He looked severe rather than studious. He might have been an omnipotent being who had detected a malefactor in a criminal act. Was Steynholme and its secret felon being regarded in that way by the providence which, for some inscrutable purpose, permitted, yet would infallibly punish, a dreadful murder? She was a girl of devout mind, and the notion was appalling in its direct application to current events.