“I never read poetry. But, if your tastes lie that way, I’ll accomplish some more adaptation.”
“Oh, no, please. Cakes for you, Mr. Siddle; poets for giddy young things like me.”
There was a sting in the words. Doris preened herself on having carried out the detective’s instructions to the letter thus far.
Arrived in the house she found her father still in the garden, examining some larvae under a microscope. He looked severe rather than studious. He might have been an omnipotent being who had detected a malefactor in a criminal act. Was Steynholme and its secret felon being regarded in that way by the providence which, for some inscrutable purpose, permitted, yet would infallibly punish, a dreadful murder? She was a girl of devout mind, and the notion was appalling in its direct application to current events.
In the meantime the chemist, evidently taking a Sunday afternoon constitutional, came on Winter, who was leaning on a wall of the bridge and looking down stream—Grant’s house being on the left.
He would have passed, in his wonted unobtrusive way, but the detective hailed him with a cheery “Good day, Mr. Siddle. Are you a fisherman?”
“No, Mr. Franklin, I’m not,” he answered.
“Well, now, I’m surprised. You are just the sort of man whom I should expect to find attached to a rod and line—even watching a float.”
“I tried once when I was younger, but I could neither impale a worm nor extract a hook. My gorge rose against either practice. I am a vegetarian, for the same reason. If it were not for this disturbing tragedy you would have heard Hobbs, the butcher, rallying me about my rabbit-meat, as he calls my food.”
“Well, well!” laughed Winter. “Your ideas and mine clash in some respects. I look on a well-grilled steak as a gift from Heaven, and after it, or before it—I don’t care which—let me have three hours whipping a good trout stream. With the right cast of flies I could show a fine bag from this very stretch of water.”