Meanwhile, Mr. Siddle had regained his poise.

"I meant nothing offensive to the donor of the beer," he said, tuning his
voice to an apologetic note. "But I take it Robinson is conducting
certain inquiries, and I imagine that his superiors demand a degree of
circumspection in such conditions. That is all."

"Surely you do not rank with the stupid crowd in its suspicions of Mr.
Grant?" said the girl.

"I'm pleased to think you refuse to class me with the gossip-mongers of
Steynholme, Doris," was the guarded answer.

There had been no reference to the murder during tea, which was served
as soon as the chemist came in. The visitor had tabled a copy of a
current medical journal containing an article on the therapeutic
qualities of honey, so the talk was lifted at once into an atmosphere far
removed from crime. Doris was grateful for his tact. When her father went
to the office she brought Mr. Siddle into the garden solely in pursuance
of her promise to the detective, though convinced that there would be no
outcome save a few labored compliments to herself. And now, by accident,
as it were, the death of Adelaide Melhuish thrust itself into their
conversation. Perhaps it was her fault.

"No," she said candidly. "No one who has known you for seven years, Mr.
Siddle, could possibly accuse you of spreading scandal."

"Seven years! Is it so long since I came to Steynholme? Sometimes, it
appears an age, but more often I fancy the calendar must be in error.