carrying out this portion of the stage directions. Truth to tell, she
would gleefully have gone and joined them.

Siddle was not altogether at ease. The conversation was too spasmodic to
suit his purpose. Though slow of speech he was nimble of brain, and,
knowing Doris so well, he had anticipated a livelier duel of wits. In all
likelihood, he cursed the tea-party on the lawn. He had not foreseen this
drawback. But, being a masterful man, he tackled the situation boldly.

"I seized the opportunity of a friendly chat with you to-day, Doris," he
went on, leaning over the fence to inhale the scent of a briar rose. "The
story runs through the village that you and your father dined at The
Hollies on Friday evening. Is that true?"

Now, Doris had it on reliable authority that Siddle himself had been the
runner who spread that story, and the knowledge steeled her heart
against him.

"Yes," she said composedly.

"It was kind and neighborly of you to accept the invitation, but a
mistake."

She turned and faced him. His expression was baffling. She thought she
saw in his sallow, clean-cut features the shadow of a confident smile.

"You mean that this horrid murder should make some difference in the
friendship between ourselves and Mr. Grant?" she cried.

"Yes. To you, though to no one else would I speak so plainly, I have no