wish that _no one_, other than yourself, shall be informed of my
identity. But I believe you will be wise, and come.

I am,

Yours faithfully,

J.L. WINTER,

Chief Inspector, C.I.D., Scotland Yard, S.W.

A card was inclosed, as a sort of credential. But, somehow, it was not
needed. Doris had seen "Mr. Franklin" more than once, and she had heard
him singing the hymns in church. He looked worthy of credence. His
written words had the same honest ring. She resolved to go.

Her father, sad to relate, had found three dead queens in the hives. He
was busy, but spared a moment to tell her that Mr. Siddle was coming to
tea at four o'clock. Doris was rather in a whirl, and seemed to be
unnecessarily astonished.

"Mr. Siddle! Why?" she gasped.

"Why not!" said her father. "It's not the first time. You can entertain
him. I'll look after the letters."

"I must get some cakes. We have none."

"Well, that's simple. I wonder if that fellow Hart really understands
apiaculture? You might invite him, too."