"Now you're adapting Omar Khayyam."

"Who's he?"

"A Persian poet of long ago."

"I never read poetry. But, if your tastes lie that way, I'll accomplish
some more adaptation."

"Oh, no, please. Cakes for you, Mr. Siddle; poets for giddy young
things like me."

There was a sting in the words. Doris preened herself on having carried
out the detective's instructions to the letter thus far.

Arrived in the house she found her father still in the garden, examining
some larvae under a microscope. He looked severe rather than studious.
He might have been an omnipotent being who had detected a malefactor in
a criminal act. Was Steynholme and its secret felon being regarded in
that way by the providence which, for some inscrutable purpose,
permitted, yet would infallibly punish, a dreadful murder? She was a
girl of devout mind, and the notion was appalling in its direct
application to current events.

In the meantime the chemist, evidently taking a Sunday afternoon
constitutional, came on Winter, who was leaning on a wall of the bridge
and looking down stream--Grant's house being on the left.

He would have passed, in his wonted unobtrusive way, but the detective