“Exactly. To-day I’m somewhat in the position of a Harley-street specialist, summoned to assist an eminent local practitioner in Dr. Fowler. That’s a sort of gentle preliminary, leading up to the disagreeable duty of putting some questions of a personal nature. What you may answer will not go beyond ourselves. I promise you that. You will not be quoted, or requested to prove your statements. Such a thing would be absurd. If I were really a doctor, and you needed my advice, you might easily describe your symptoms all wrong. It would be my business to listen, and deduce the truth, and I would never dream of rating you for having misled me. You see my point?”
“Yes, but Mr. Win—Mr. Franklin, I know nothing whatever about the murder.”
“I’m sure you don’t. It was a wicked trick of Fate that took you to Mr. Grant’s garden last Monday night.”
“It was really an astronomical almanac,” retorted Doris, who now felt a growing confidence in this nice-spoken official. “Sirius is a star remarkable for its beautiful changing lights, and on Monday evening was at its best. I think I ought to explain,” and she blushed delightfully, “that the village gossip about Mr. Grant and me is entirely mistaken. We are not—well, I had better use plain English—we are not lovers. My father and I are just on close, friendly terms with Mr. Grant. I—my position hardly warrants even that relationship with an author of some distinction. But please set aside any notion of us as likely to become engaged. For one thing, it is preposterous. For another, I shall not leave my father.”
Poor Doris! She little guessed how accurately this skilled student of human nature read the hidden thought behind that vehement protest. Even the note of vague rebellion against social disabilities was pathetic yet illuminating. Of course, he took her quite seriously.
“Let us keep to the hard road of fact,” he said. “What you really mean is that Mr. Grant has never made love to you. But I must be candid, young lady. There is no earthly reason why he shouldn’t, though I could name offhand half a dozen why he should.... Well, well, I must not pay compliments. My friend, Mr. Furneaux, can manage that with much greater facility, being half a Frenchman. And now I’m going to say an unpleasant thing. I ask your forgiveness in advance. Both Mr. Furneaux and I agree in the opinion that your imaginary love affair is indissolubly bound up with the mystery of Miss Melhuish’s death. In a word, I have brought you here today to discuss your prospective marriage, and nothing else. That astonishes you, eh? Well, it’s the truth, as I shall proceed to make clear. There’s a Mr. Fred Elkin, for instance—”
Doris uttered a little laugh of dismay. Winter’s emphatic words had astounded her, but the horse-dealer’s name acted as comic relief.
“I can’t bear the man,” she protested.
“I have no doubt. But you ought to know that he is loudly proclaiming his determination to marry you before the year is out.”
The girl’s face reddened again, and her eyes sparkled.