we three weren't alone. Where's that boy?"

"Gone to his dinner. Father will take it. By the way, say nothing to him
as to the contents. Would you mind calling him?"

Doris hurried swiftly to the sitting-room, and thence upstairs. The
telegraphist explained the absence of a messenger, so Mr. Martin
delivered the telegram in person.

Crossing the street, he detected a dead bee. He picked it up, horrified
at the thought that the Isle of Wight disease might have reached Sussex.
So it was an absent-minded postmaster who handed the telegram over
Siddle's counter, inquiring laconically:

"Is there any answer?"

Siddle opened the buff envelope, and read. He glanced sharply at Martin.

"No," he said. "What's wrong with that bee?"

"I don't know. I have my doubts. When I have a moment to spare I'll put
it under the microscope."

Siddle examined the telegram again. The handwriting was that beloved of
Civil Service Commissioners. Unquestionably, it was not Doris's. No
sooner had his friend gone off, still intent on the dead insect, than
Siddle followed. He knew that the bee would undergo scientific scrutiny
at once, so gave Martin just enough time to dive into the sitting-room
before entering the post office.