"Ah. He is not a native of the place?"

"No. He bought Mr. Benson's business. He's a Londoner, I believe."

"Is there--a Mrs. Siddle?"

"No. I--er--that is to say, gossip has it that he was married, but his
wife died."

"He doesn't speak of her? Is that it? One would have thought that in a
house where he is well known--"

"We don't really know him well. No one does, I think."

"You've invited him to tea, at any rate," laughed Winter.

"No," said Doris. "He invited himself. At least, so I gathered from dad."

"Ah, well. He feels lonely, no doubt, and wishes to chat about recent
strange events in Steynholme. And that brings me to the reason why I
sought this chat under such peculiar conditions. You realize my handicap,
Miss Martin? If I were seen talking to you, or even entering your house
as apart from the post office, people would begin to wonder. You follow
that, don't you?"

Yes, Doris did follow it. What she did not follow was the veiled
admiration in Superintendent Fowler's glance at the detective. Those few
inconsequential questions had shed a flood of light on Siddle's past and
present, yet the informant was blissfully unaware of their real purport.
And the way was opened so deftly. The purchase of a chemist's business