"I listen to the words of those qualified to speak with knowledge and authority. I have mixed in varied company this past week, wholly on your account. Don't be led away by the mere formalities of the opening day of the inquest. The coroner deliberately shut off all real evidence except as to the cause of death. On Wednesday the situation will change, and you cannot fail to be shocked by what you hear, because you will be there."

"I am given to understand that, even if I am called, my testimony will be of no importance."

"Such may be the police view. Mr. Ingerman will press for a very different estimate."

"Has he told you that?"

"Yes."

"So, although foreman of the jury, you have not declined to hobn.o.b with a man who is avowedly Mr. Grant's enemy?"

"I would hobn.o.b with worse people if, by so doing, I might serve you."

Grant, "fed up," as he put it to Hart, with watching the _tete a tete_ between Doris and the chemist, sprang to his feet and went through a pantomime easy enough to follow save for one or two signs. Doris held both hands aloft. Well knowing that anything in the nature of a pre-arranged code would be gall and wormwood to Siddle, she explained laughingly:

"Mr. Grant signals that he and Mr. Hart are going for a walk; he wants me to accompany them. But I can't, unfortunately. I promised dad to help with the accounts."

"If you really mean what you say, my warning would seem to have fallen on deaf ears."

Siddle's voice was well under control, but his eyes glinted dangerously.

His state was that of a man torn by pa.s.sion who nevertheless felt that any display of the rage possessing him would be fatal to his cause.

But, rather unexpectedly, Doris took fire. Siddle's innuendoes and protestations were sufficiently hard to bear without the added knowledge that a ridiculous convention denied her the companionship of a man whom she loved, and who, she was beginning to believe, loved her. She swept round on Siddle like a wrathful G.o.ddess.

"I have borne with you patiently because of the acquaintance of years, but I shall be glad if this t.i.ttle-tattle of malice and ignorance now ceases," she said proudly. "Mr. Grant is my friend, and my father's friend. In the first horror of the crime which has besmirched our dear little village, we both treated Mr. Grant rather badly. We know better to-day. Your Ingermans and your Elkins, and the rest of the busybodies gathered at the inn, may defame him as they choose, or as they dare. As for me, I am his loyal comrade, and shall remain so after next Wednesday, or a score of Wednesdays. I am going in now, Mr. Siddle, and shall be engaged during the remainder of the evening. Your shop opens at six, and I am sure you will find some more profitable means of spending the time than in telling me things I would rather not hear."

Siddle caught her arm.

"Doris," he said fiercely, "you must not leave me without, at least, learning my true motive. I--"

The girl wrested herself free from his grip. She realized what was coming, and forestalled it.

"I care nothing for your motive," she cried. "You forget yourself!

Please go!"

She literally ran into the house. The chemist, unless he elected to behave like a love-sick fool, had no option but to follow, and make his way to the street by the side door.

The only other happening of significance that Sunday was an unheralded visit by Winter to the policeman's residence.

He popped in after dusk, opening the door without knocking.

"You in, Robinson?" he inquired.

"Yes, sir. Will you--"

"Shan't detain you more than a minute. At the inquest you said that you personally untied the rope which bound Miss Melhuish's body. Here are a piece of string and a newspaper. Would you mind showing me what sort of knot was used?"

Robinson was nearly struck dumb, and his fingers fumbled badly, but he managed to exhibit two hitches.

"Ah, thanks," said Winter, and was off in a jiffy.

From the window of a darkened room Robinson watched the erect, burly figure of the detective until it was merged in the mists of night.

"Well, I'm--," he exclaimed bitterly.

"John, what are you swearing about?" demanded his wife from the kitchen.

"Something I heard to-day," answered her husband. "There was a chap of my name, John P. Robinson, an' he said that down in Judee they didn't know everything. And, by gum, he was right. They knew mighty little about London 'tecs, I'm thinking. But, hold on. Surely--"

He bustled into his coat, and hastened to The Hollies. No, neither Mr.

Grant nor Mr. Hart had spoken to a soul about the knot. Nor had Bates. Of course, Robinson did not venture to describe Winter. Finally, he put the incident aside as a clear case of thought-reading.

CHAPTER XV

A MATTER OF HEREDITY

Shortly before noon on Monday occurred two events destined to a.s.sume a paramount importance in the affair which was wringing the withers of Steynholme. As in the histories of both men and nations, these first steps in great developments began quietly enough. For one thing, Furneaux returned to the village. For another, the London telegraphist, who expected the day to prove practically a blank, was reading a newspaper when the telegraph instrument clicked the local call.

Doris was checking and distributing the stock of stamps which had arrived that morning; her father was counting mail-bags in a small annex to the main room, the Knoleworth office having acquired a habit of making up shortages by docking the country branches. No member of the public happened to be present. The girl could have heard what the Morse code was tapping forth had she chosen, but she had trained herself to disregard the telegraph when occupied on other work.

Suddenly, however, the telegraphist's pencil paused.

"h.e.l.lo!" he said. "Theodore Siddle! That's the chemist opposite, isn't it!"

"Yes," said Doris, suspending her calculations at mention of the name.

"Well, his mother's dead."

"Dead?" she echoed vacantly. Somehow, it had never hitherto dawned on her that the chemist might possess relatives in some part of the country.

"That's what it says," went on the other. "'Regret inform you your mother died this morning. Superintendent, Horton Asylum.'"

"In an asylum, too," said the girl, speaking at random.

"Yes. Horton is the place for epileptic lunatics, near Epsom, you know."

"I didn't know. Does it mean that--that she was an epileptic lunatic?"

"So I should imagine, from the wording. If a nurse, or a matron, they'd surely describe her as such."

"I suppose we ought not to discuss Mr. Siddle's telegram," said Doris, after a pause.

"Well, no. But where's the harm? I wouldn't have yelled out the news if we three weren't alone. Where's that boy?"

"Gone to his dinner. Father will take it. By the way, say nothing to him as to the contents. Would you mind calling him?"