In the meantime the chemist, evidently taking a Sunday afternoon constitutional, came on Winter, who was leaning on a wall of the bridge and looking down stream—Grant’s house being on the left. He would have passed, in his wonted unobtrusive way, but the detective hailed him with a cheery “Good day, Mr. Siddle. Are you a fisherman?” “No, Mr. Franklin, I’m not,” he answered. “Well, now, I’m surprised. You are just the sort of man whom I should expect to find attached to a rod and line—even watching a float.” “I tried once when I was younger, but I could neither impale a worm nor extract a hook. My gorge rose against either practice. I am a vegetarian, for the same reason. If it were not for this disturbing tragedy you would have heard Hobbs, the butcher, rallying me about my rabbit-meat, as he calls my food.” “Well, well!” laughed Winter. “Your ideas and mine clash in some respects. I look on a well-grilled steak as a gift from Heaven, and after it, or before it—I don’t care which—let me have three hours whipping a good trout stream. With the right cast of flies I could show a fine bag from this very stretch of water.” “Why not ask Mr. Grant’s permission? It would be interesting to learn whether he will allow others to try their luck.” Mr. Siddle strolled on. Winter bent over, keen to discern the gray-backed fish which must be lurking in those clear depths and rippling shallows. Chapter XIV. On Both Sides of the River The sun, transmuted into Greenwich time, exercised an extraordinary influence on the seemingly humdrum life of Steynholme that day. A few minutes after three o’clock—just too late to observe either Winter or Siddle—P. C. Robinson strolled forth from his cottage. He glanced up the almost deserted high-street, in which every rounded cobble and white flagstone radiated heat. A high-class automobile had dashed past twice in forty minutes, but the pace was on the borderland of doubt, so the guardian of the public weal had contented himself with recording its number on the return journey.