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There was that in his tone which forbade questioning, so Peters sheered off, well content with the share permitted him in the inquiry thus far. "That fellow, Hart, is no fool," went on Winter rapidly. "He said last night 'How does one get evidence? It was not easy to answer. Siddle has gone to his mother's funeral. What do you think!"
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.
"Who the deuce is that with Miss Martin?" he said, returning her signal. "Siddle, the chemist," announced Robinson, not too well pleased himself at being "spotted" so openly. "Well, gentlemen, I'll be off," and he vanished by the side path through the laurels. "Siddle!" repeated Grant vexedly. "So it is. And she dislikes the man, for some reason."
Siddle, Elkin, Tomlin and Hobbs, with eight other local tradesmen and farmers, formed the jurors, and the chemist was promptly elected foreman; no witnesses were ordered out of court; the formalities of "swearing in" the jury and "viewing" the body were carried through rapidly.
Tomlin stared at the ash of one of the cigars "stood" by this talkative Londoner; Hobbs, whose glass had reached a low level again, examined the dregs almost fiercely; and Siddle seemed to be about to say something, but, with his usual restraint, kept silent. Then Ingerman made a very shrewd guess, and wondered who Doris Martin was, and what Hobbs's cryptic allusion had meant.
"We Steynholme folk have a pretty clear notion, I can assure you." "The matter is still sub judice, and may remain so a long time," said Siddle. "It is simply stupid to attach a kind of responsibility to the man who happens to occupy the house associated with the crime. I have no patience with that sort of reasoning." Hobbs, who did not want to quarrel with Elkin, suddenly championed him.
Elkin was about twenty-five years of age, Siddle looked younger than his probable thirty-five years, while the others were on the stout and prosperous line of fifty. They were discussing the murder, of course, when Ingerman entered, and ordered a whiskey and soda. Instantly there was dead silence. Looks and furtive winks were exchanged. There had been talk of a detective being employed.
He would see instantly how interested Miss Melhuish was in the owner of The Hollies, while she, a smart Londoner, would recognize in Siddle an informant worth all the rest of the babblers in Steynholme.
You're still muddled after floundering in the mud of South America. What possessed you to let that cheerful idiot, Wally Hart, put you in the cart?" "How could I help it? I was extracting some really helpful facts about Siddle and Elkin from Tomlin and the others when a shock-headed whirlwind blew in, and nearly embraced me because I claimed acquaintance with the El Dorado bar in Buenos Ayres.
Siddle seemed to object to The Hollies being mentioned as the scene of the crime," he said. "I wonder why?" "Because he's an old molly-coddle," snapped the horse-dealer. "Thinks everyone is like himself, a regular slow-coach." Tomlin closed the door into the passage, closed it for the first time in living memory, whereat Furneaux, on the landing above, grinned sardonically, and ran downstairs.
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