how I feel about Siddle. The man's an enigma. What sort of place is
Steynholme for a chemist of his capacities? Dr. Foxton has the highest
regard for him professionally, and I'm told he doctors people for miles
around. Yet he lives the life of a recluse. An old woman comes by day
to prepare his meals, and tidy the house and shop. His sole relaxation
is an hour of an evening in the village inn, his visits there being
uninterrupted since the murder. He was there on the night of the
murder, too. For the rest, he is alone, shut off from the world.
Without knowing it, he's going to fall into deep waters to-day, and
he'll emit sparks, or I'm a Chinaman.... I'll leave you here. Good-by!
See you on Tuesday, after lunch."

The superintendent drove on alone. He pondered the Steynholme affair in
all its bearings, but mostly did he weigh up Winter and Furneaux. At
last, he sighed.

"London ways, and London books, and London detectives!" he muttered.
"We're not up to date in Sussex. Now, if I could please myself, I'd be
hot-foot after Elkin. I see what Winter has in his mind, but surely Elkin
fills the bill, and Siddle doesn't.... What was that word--volt what!"

Doris was lucky. She met Mr. Siddle as she emerged from the back passage
to the cake-shop. Resolving instantly that if an unpleasant thing had to
be done it should at least be done well, she smiled brightly.

"See what you have driven me to--breaking the Sabbath," she cried,
holding up the bag of cakes.

"Tea and bread-and-butter with you would be a feast for the gods,"
said Siddle.