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Updated: May 16, 2025
Furneaux, light and nimble-footed, scrambled through first, so it was he who found Siddle lying in the orchard beyond the wall of the yard. The unhappy wretch had swallowed nearly the whole remaining contents of the bottle of nicotine, or enough to poison a score of robust men. He presented a lamentable and distressing spectacle.
Rather on the tiptoe of expectation, she awaited the next move. It was slow in coming, so again she looked wistfully at the distant tea-drinkers. She found slight difficulty in carrying out this portion of the stage directions. Truth to tell, she would gleefully have gone and joined them. Siddle was not altogether at ease. The conversation was too spasmodic to suit his purpose.
They don't like it, an' who can blame 'em!" "Who, indeed? But this Elkin surely he had some ground for a definite boast, made openly, among people acquainted with all the parties?" "There's more than Elkin would marry Doris if she lifted a finger, sir." "Can you name them?" "Well, Tomlin wants a wife." Winter laughed joyously. "Next?" he cried. "They say that Mr. Siddle is a widower."
"Free to confess that events have opened my eyes to the truth, so, not for the first time, out of evil comes good." "A prig." "Visit for such a purpose a piece of unheard-of impudence." These were all on one page. "Quite clearly a précis of Grant's remarks when Siddle called on Monday," said Winter. At any other time, Furneaux would have waxed sarcastic. Now he merely nodded.
Then he swore. "What's wrong now?" inquired the chemist quietly. "That Grant. Got a nerve, hasn't he?" "I can't say, unless you explain." "He's just gone into the post office." "Why shouldn't he? He wants stamps, may be; plenty of 'em, I should imagine." "Oh, you're a fish, Siddle. You aren't crazy about a girl, like I am. The sooner Grant's in jail the better I'll be pleased."
"I meant to," answered Furneaux quietly. "No half measures for me. I've looked up the asylum record of Mrs. Siddle, senior, and it's not nice reading." "There was a Mrs. Siddle, junior, then?" "A Mrs. Theodore Siddle, if one adopts the conventional usage. Yes. She died last month." "Last month!" gasped Doris, feeling vaguely that she was moving in a maze of deceit and subterfuge.
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."
He picked it up, horrified at the thought that the Isle of Wight disease might have reached Sussex. 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.
I have no secrets from my friends, so I may as well tell you " "That Siddle called, and implored you to consider Doris Martin's future by avoiding her at present," put in the Chief Inspector.
A thin, sharp-looking person, pallid and black-haired, wearing a morning coat and striped trousers, must surely be Siddle, while a fourth, the youngest there, and of rather sporting guise, was apparently a farmer of a horse-breeding turn. "Who is that fellow in the leggings?" inquired the superintendent irrelevantly.
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