Doris hurried swiftly to the sitting-room, and thence upstairs. The telegraphist explained the absence of a messenger, so Mr. Martin delivered the telegram in person.

Crossing the street, he detected a dead bee. He picked it up, horrified at the thought that the Isle of Wight disease might have reached Suss.e.x.

So it was an absent-minded postmaster who handed the telegram over Siddle's counter, inquiring laconically:

"Is there any answer?"

Siddle opened the buff envelope, and read. He glanced sharply at Martin.

"No," he said. "What's wrong with that bee?"

"I don't know. I have my doubts. When I have a moment to spare I'll put it under the microscope."

Siddle examined the telegram again. The handwriting was that beloved of Civil Service Commissioners. Unquestionably, it was not Doris's. No sooner had his friend gone off, still intent on the dead insect, than Siddle followed. He knew that the bee would undergo scientific scrutiny at once, so gave Martin just enough time to dive into the sitting-room before entering the post office.

"Did you receive this telegram a few minutes ago!" he inquired.

The young man became severely official.

"Which telegram?" he said stiffly.

"This one," and Siddle gave him the written message.

"Yes," was the answer.

"Excuse me, but--er--are its contents known to you only?"

"What do you mean, sir? It would cost me my berth if I divulged a word of it to anyone."

"I'm sorry. Pray don't take offense. I--I'm anxious that my friends, Mr. and Miss Martin, should not hear of it. That is what I really have in mind."

The telegraphist cooled down.

"You may be quite sure that neither they nor any other person in Steynholme will ever see the duplicate," he said confidentially. "I make up a package containing duplicates each evening, and it is sent to headquarters. If it will please you, I'll lock the copy now in my desk."

"That is exceedingly good of you," said Siddle gratefully. "You, as a Londoner, will understand that such a telegram from--er--Horton is not the sort of thing one would like to become known even in the most limited circle."

"You can depend on me, sir."

Siddle hastened back to his shop. The telegraphist looked after him.

"Queer!" he mused. "Miss Doris guessed him at once. Phi-ew, I must be careful! This village contains surprises."

Doris, watching from an upper room, saw the visitor, and timed him. She imagined he had dispatched an answer. Being a woman, she sought enlightenment a few minutes later.

"Mr. Siddle came in," she said tentatively.

"Yes," said the specialist, smiling. "And I agree with you, Miss Martin.

We mustn't talk about telegrams, even among ourselves, unless it is necessary departmentally."

Doris was silenced, but she read the riddle correctly. The chemist was particularly anxious that no Steynholme resident should be made aware of his mother's death. She wondered why.

She was enlightened when Furneaux paid a call about tea-time. She took him into the garden. The lawn at The Hollies was empty.

"Well, you entertained an acquaintance yesterday?" he began.

"Yes. Am I to tell you what happened?"

"Not a great deal, I imagine," he said, with a puzzling laugh.

"No, but I annoyed him, as Mr.----"

"No names!" broke in the detective hastily. "Names, especially modern ones, destroy romance. Even the Georgian method of using initials, or leaving out vowels, lend an air of intrigue to the veriest balderdash."

"But no one can overhear us," was the somewhat surprised comment.

"How true!" said Furneaux. "Pardon me, Miss Martin. Tell the story in your own way."

Doris had a good memory. She was invariably letter-perfect in a play after a couple of rehearsals, and could prompt others if they faltered.

The detective listened in silence while she repeated the conversation between Siddle and herself. He took no notes. In fact, he hardly ever did make any record in a case unless it was essential to prove the exact words of a suspected person.

"Good!" he said, when she had finished. "That sounds like the complete text."

"I don't think I have left out anything of importance--that is, if a single word of it _is_ important."

"Oh, heaps," he a.s.sured her. "It's even better than I dared hope. Can you tell me if Siddle's mother is dead yet?"

The question found Doris so thoroughly unprepared that she blurted out:

"Have you had a telegram, too, then?"

"No. But Siddle has had one, eh? Don't be vexed. I'm not tricking you into revealing post office secrets. I knew she was dying, and, when I saw your father take a message to the chemist's shop I simply made an accurate guess.... Now, I'm going to scare you, purposely and of malice aforethought, because I want you to be a good little girl, and obey orders. Mrs. Siddle, senior, now happily deceased, was an epileptic lunatic of a peculiarly dangerous type. She suffered from what is cla.s.sed by the doctors as _furor epilepticus_, a form of spasmodic insanity not inconsistent with a high degree of bodily vigor and long periods of apparently complete mental saneness. Now, if I were not speaking to one who has shared her father's studies in bee-life, I would not introduce the subject of heredity. But _you_ know, Miss Martin, that such racial characteristics are transmitted, or transmissible, I should say, by s.e.x opposites. Thus, an epileptic mother is more likely to give her taint to a son than to a daughter.... Yes, I mean all that, and more," he went on, seeing the look of horror, not unmixed with fear, in Doris's eyes. "There must be no more irritating of Siddle, or playing on his feelings--by you, at any rate. Treat him gently. If he insists on making love to you, be as firm as you like in a non-committal way. I mean, by that, an entire absence on your part of any suggestion that you are repulsing him because of a real or supposed preference for any other man."

"Do you want me to believe that he is liable to attack me?" demanded the girl, her naturally courageous spirit coming to her aid.

"I do," said Furneaux, speaking with marked earnestness.

"Yet you ask me to endure his company if he chooses to force himself on me?"

"For a few days."

"But it may be a few years?"

"No. That is not to be thought of. Leave it to me to devise a way.

Besides, you need not allow him so many opportunities that the strain would become unbearable. You are busy, owing to the certain increase of work brought about by this murder. Your time will be greatly occupied.

But, don't render him morbidly suspicious. For instance, no more dinners at The Hollies. No more gadding about by night, if you hear weird noises on the other side of the river. And you must absolutely deny yourself the pleasurable excitement of Mr. Grant's company."

"You are carrying a warning to its extreme limit."