examined the dregs almost fiercely; and Siddle seemed to be about to say
something, but, with his usual restraint, kept silent. Then Ingerman made
a very shrewd guess, and wondered who Doris Martin was, and what Hobbs's
cryptic allusion had meant.

"Good luck to you, sir," he said, "but--take no offense--don't marry an
actress. There's an old adage, 'Birds of a feather flock together.' I
would go farther, and interpolate the word 'should.' If Adelaide Melhuish
had never met me, but had married the man who could write her plays, this
tragedy in real life would never have been."

"D--n him," muttered Elkin fiercely. "He's done for now, anyhow. He'll
turn no more girls' heads for a bit."

"An' five minutes since you yapped at me like a vicious fox-terrier for
'intin' much the same thing," chortled Hobbs.

Siddle stood up.

"You ain't goin', Mr. Siddle?" went on the butcher. "It's 'ardly 'arf
past nine."

"I have some accounts to get out. It's near the half year, you know," and
Siddle vanished unobtrusively.

Hobbs shook his head, and gazed at Elkin as though the latter was a
refractory bullock.

"Siddle's a fair-minded chap," he said. "He can't stand 'earin' any of us
'angin' a man without a fair trial."