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Bates to belabor him with a rolling pin. Mr. Siddle, for instance, had just closed his shop when the five met. That is to say, the dark blue blind was drawn, but the door was ajar. He came to the threshold, and watched the party until the bridge was neared, when one of them, looking back, might have seen him, so he stepped discreetly inside.
"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."
She was some hundreds of yards away, and could not be positive that some man, perhaps a glazier, had not been there legitimately effecting repairs. Still, when she met Siddle hurrying from the station, she told him of the incident. "He never even thanked me," she said, "but broke into a run. The look in his eyes was awful."
First, the bundle an old covert-coating overcoat and a pair of frayed trousers which probably draped Owd Ben's ghost. They've been soaked in turpentine, which, chemist or no chemist, is still the best agent for removing stains. We'll put 'em under the glass after we've examined the book. Siddle keeps a sort of diary, a series of jumbled memoranda.
"If you take my advice, which you won't, I know, you will not utter that sort of remark publicly." "Can't help it. Bet you a fiver I'm engaged to Doris Martin within a week." Mr. Siddle took thought. "Why so quickly?" he asked, after a pause. "I'll catch her on the hop, of course. If she's engaged to me it'll help her a lot when this case comes into court."
He still clings to the theory that your wife was the intended victim, Grant. Do you agree with him?" "Rubbish!" cried Furneaux, before his host could answer. "At best, Peters is only a clever ass. Siddle never had the remotest notion of killing Miss Doris Martin, as Mrs. Grant was then.
"An' you want it, too, Fred," said Hobbs. "Dash me, you're as thin as a herrin'. Stop whiskey an' drink beer, like me." "And you might also follow that gentleman's example," interposed Siddle quietly, nodding towards Mr. Franklin. "What's that?" snapped Elkin. "Don't worry about murders." "That's a nice thing to say. Why should I worry about the d -d mix-up?"
Peters had gobbled his chop before Franklin entered the dining-room, but they met later in the snug, where Elkin was being chaffed by Hobbs anent his carryin's on in Knoleworth the previous night. Siddle came in, but the chatter was not so free as when the habitués had the place to themselves.
Siddle, could possibly accuse you of spreading scandal." "Seven years! Is it so long since I came to Steynholme? Sometimes, it appears an age, but more often I fancy the calendar must be in error. Why, it seems only the other day that I saw you in a short frock, bowling a hoop." "A tom-boy occupation," laughed Doris. "But dad encouraged that and skipping, as the best possible means of exercise."
Hobbs, whose heavy cheeks were of a brick-red tint, almost startled the conclave by a sudden outburst which gave him an apoplectic appearance. "You're too kind'earted, Siddle," he cried. "Wot's the use of talkin' rubbish. We all know where the body was found. We all know that Doris Martin an' Mr. Grant were a'sweet-'eartin' in the garden "
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