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"He was right. Look how straight and svelte you are! Few, if any, among our community can have watched your progress to womanhood as closely as I. You see, living opposite, as I do, I kept track of you more intimately than your other neighbors." Siddle was trimming his sails cleverly. The concluding sentence robbed his earlier comments of their sentimental import.
"Your father would never admit that what he knows to be true of bees is equally true of humanity. You can trust the police to keep a pretty sharp eye on Siddle, of course, but the present is a strenuous period, both for us and for people with maniacal tendencies, so accidents may happen." "You have distressed me immeasurably," said the girl, striving to pierce the mask of that inscrutable face.
"Now, I must say " he began. But Peters clutched his shoulder with a nervous hand. "Siddle has just hurried up the street and entered his shop," he hissed. The journalist had not only kept his eyes open, but excelled in the art of putting two and two together, an arithmetical calculation which, as applied to the affairs of life, is not so readily arrived at as many people imagine. "Buncoed!
I look on a well-grilled steak as a gift from Heaven, and after it, or before it I don't care which let me have three hours whipping a good trout stream. With the right cast of flies I could show a fine bag from this very stretch of water." "Why not ask Mr. Grant's permission? It would be interesting to learn whether he will allow others to try their luck." Mr. Siddle strolled on.
Siddle stirred uneasily, but the others were still as partridges in stubble. Ingerman did not intend to alarm the shy bird of the covey, however. "I name no names," he said solemnly. "Nor am I telling you anything that will not be thoroughly exposed before the coroner and elsewhere. From that unhappy period dated our estrangement.
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.
An old volume of the Sussex Miscellany, probably that for 1820, contains the full story of Owd Ben. I might have mentioned it to you, but focussed on current events. Siddle has it among his books, which, by the way, are made up largely of scientific and popular criminal records." "Is that the lot?" "I'm afraid so. Have a look." "Just a minute. I want to think."
Then Grant laughed, and turned on his heel. Mr. Siddle, quietly observant of recent comings and goings, was standing at the door of the shop, and missed no item of this dumb show. He raised both hands in silent condemnation of Elkin's childishness, whereupon the horse-dealer jerked a thumb toward Grant's retreating figure, and went through a rapid pantomime of the hanging process.
At any rate, no matter how the thing was brought about, it is self-evident that Siddle brought his intended victim into the grounds, and told her of the small uncovered window through which she could peer at Grant after Miss Doris had gone. He showed her which path to use, and undoubtedly waited for her, and stayed her flight when Grant rose from his chair.
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.
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