"I'm sure you don't. It was a wicked trick of Fate that took you to Mr.
Grant's garden last Monday night."

"It was really an astronomical almanac," retorted Doris, who now felt a
growing confidence in this nice-spoken official. "Sirius is a star
remarkable for its beautiful changing lights, and on Monday evening was
at its best. I think I ought to explain," and she blushed delightfully,
"that the village gossip about Mr. Grant and me is entirely mistaken. We
are not--well, I had better use plain English--we are not lovers. My
father and I are just on close, friendly terms with Mr. Grant. I--my
position hardly warrants even that relationship with an author of some
distinction. But please set aside any notion of us as likely to become
engaged. For one thing, it is preposterous. For another, I shall not
leave my father."

Poor Doris! She little guessed how accurately this skilled student of
human nature read the hidden thought behind that vehement protest. Even
the note of vague rebellion against social disabilities was pathetic yet
illuminating. Of course, he took her quite seriously.

"Let us keep to the hard road of fact," he said. "What you really mean is
that Mr. Grant has never made love to you. But I must be candid, young
lady. There is no earthly reason why he shouldn't, though I could name
offhand half a dozen why he should.... Well, well, I must not pay
compliments. My friend, Mr. Furneaux, can manage that with much greater
facility, being half a Frenchman. And now I'm going to say an unpleasant
thing. I ask your forgiveness in advance. Both Mr. Furneaux and I agree
in the opinion that your imaginary love affair is indissolubly bound up
with the mystery of Miss Melhuish's death. In a word, I have brought you
here today to discuss your prospective marriage, and nothing else. That