"What's wrong now?" inquired the chemist quietly.
"That Grant. Got a nerve, hasn't he?"
"I can't say, unless you explain."
"He's just gone into the post office."
"Why shouldn't he? He wants stamps, may be; plenty of 'em, I should imagine."
"Oh, you're a fish, Siddle. You aren't crazy about a girl, like I am. The sooner Grant's in jail the better I'll be pleased."
"If you take my advice, which you won't, I know, you will not utter that sort of remark publicly."
"Can't help it. Bet you a fiver I'm engaged to Doris Martin within a week."
Mr. Siddle took thought.
"Why so quickly?" he asked, after a pause.
"I'll catch her on the hop, of course. If she's engaged to me it'll help her a lot when this case comes into court."
"I cannot believe that Doris would accept any man for such a reason."
"I'm not 'any man.' She knows I'm after her. Will you take my bet, even money?"
"No. I don't bet."
"Well, you needn't put a damper on me. In fact, you can't. Have you that last prescription of Dr. Foxton's handy? My liver wants a tonic."
The chemist thumbed a dog-eared volume, read an entry carefully, and retired to a dispensing counter in the rear of the shop.
"Shall I send it?" came his voice.
"No. I'll wait. Give me a dose now, if you don't mind."
For some reason, Fred Elkin was not himself that day. He was moody, and fretful as a sick colt. But he had diagnosed his ailment and its cause accurately; a discreet doctor was probably aware of his failings, and had considered them in the "mixture."
The post office was not busy when Grant entered. A young man, a stranger, was seated at the telegraphist's desk, tapping a new instrument. The G. P. O., forewarned, had lent an expert to deal with press messages.
Mr. Martin, sorting some documents, came forward when he saw Grant. His kindly, somewhat pre-occupied face was long as a fiddle.
"Good morning, Mr. Martin," said Grant.
"Good morning. What can I do for you?" was the stiff reply. Grant was in no mind to be rebuffed, however.
"I must have a word with you in private," he said.
"I'm sorry—but my time is quite full."
"I'm sorry, too, but the matter is urgent."
The click of the sounder became less businesslike. There was an element in the tone of each voice that drew the London telegraphist's attention. Martin, usually the mildest-mannered man in Sussex, was obviously ill at ease. But he simply could not hold out against Grant's compelling gaze.
"Come into the back room," he said nervously. "Call me if I'm needed," he added, nodding to his assistant.
Grant did not hesitate an instant when the postmaster reached the "back parlor" through another door. The open window, draped in clematis, gave a delightful glimpse of The Hollies. A window-box of mignonette filled the air with its delicate perfume. Grant hoped that Doris would be there, but the only signs of her recent presence were a hat and an open book on the table.
"Now, Mr. Martin," he said gravely, "you and I should have a serious talk. It is idle to deny that gossip is spreading broadcast certain malicious and absurd rumors which closely concern Doris and myself. To me these things are of slight consequence. To a girl of your daughter's age they are poisonous. If you, her father, know the whole truth, you can regulate your actions so as to defeat the scandalmongers. That is why I am here to-day. That is why I came here yesterday, but your attitude took me aback, and I was idiot enough to go without a word of explanation. I was too shaken then to see my clear course, and follow it regardless of personal feelings. This morning I am master of myself, and I insist that you listen now while I tell you exactly what occurred on Monday night."
"Surely—these matters—are—for the authorities," stammered the older man.
"What? Your daughter's good name?"
Mr. Martin reddened. His agitation was pitiful.
"That is hardly in question, sir," he said brokenly.
"I am speaking of the tongue of slander. Heaven help and direct me! I would suffer death rather than see Doris subjected to the leers and innuendoes of every lout in the village."
Grant's earnestness could hardly fail to impress his friend. But Martin had either made up his mind or been warned not to discuss the murder, and adhered loyally to that line of conduct. He retreated toward the door leading to the post office proper.
"It is too late to interfere now," he said.
"What on earth do you mean?" demanded Grant, yielding to a gust of anger.
"The whole—of the circumstances—are being inquired into by the police," came the hesitating answer.
"Has that prying scoundrel, Robinson, dared to cross-examine Doris?"
"He came here, of course, but Scotland Yard has taken up the inquiry."
"A detective—here?"
"Yes. He is with Doris in the garden at this moment."
Grant knew the topography of the house. Without asking permission, he tore through yet a third door leading to a kitchen and scullery, nearly upsetting a tiny maid who had her ear or eye to the key-hole, and raced into the garden in which the postmaster kept his bees.
Doris, standing with her hands behind her back, was looking at The Hollies, and deep in conversation with an alert and natty little man who was evidently absorbed in what she was saying.
Grant, in a whirl of fury, was only conscious that Doris's companion was slight, almost diminutive, of frame, very erect, and dressed in a well-fitting blue serge suit, neat brown boots and straw hat, when the two heard his footsteps.
Doris was flustered. Her Romney face held a look of scare.
"Oh, here is Mr. Grant!" she said, striving vainly to speak with composure.
The little man pierced Grant with an extraordinarily penetrating glance from very bright and deeply-recessed black eyes.
"Ah, Mr. Grant, is it!" he chirped pleasantly. "Good morning! So you're the villain of the piece, are you?"
CHAPTER VI
Scotland Yard Takes a Hand
It was a singular greeting, to say the least, and the person who uttered it was quite as remarkable as his queer method of expressing himself seemed to indicate.
Grant, though in a fume of hot anger, had the good sense to choke back the first impetuous reprimand trembling on his lips. In fact, wrath quickly subsided into blank incredulity. He saw before him, not the conventional detective who might be described as a superior Robinson—not even the sinewy, sharp-eyed, and well-spoken type of man whom he had once heard giving evidence in a famous jewel-robbery case—but rather one whom he would have expected to meet in the bar of a certain well-known restaurant in Maiden Lane, a corner of old London where literally all the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players.
During his theatrical experiences he had come across scores of such men, dapper little fellows, wizened of face yet curiously youthful in manner; but they, each and all, were labeled "low comedian." Certainly, a rare intelligence gleamed from this man's eyes, but that is an attribute not often lacking in humorists who command high salaries because of their facility in laughter-making.