“I detest him.”
“He makes out, to put it mildly, that you are great friends.”
“You will oblige me by contradicting the statement. Or—no. One treats that sort of man with contempt.”
“I agree with you most heartily. I’m sorry I ever mentioned him.”
Yet Doris was well aware that the chemist had dragged in Elkin by the scruff of the neck, probably for the sake of getting him disposed of thoroughly and for all time. Rather on the tiptoe of expectation, she awaited the next move. It was slow in coming, so again she looked wistfully at the distant tea-drinkers. She found slight difficulty in carrying out this portion of the stage directions. Truth to tell, she would gleefully have gone and joined them.
Siddle was not altogether at ease. The conversation was too spasmodic to suit his purpose. Though slow of speech he was nimble of brain, and, knowing Doris so well, he had anticipated a livelier duel of wits. In all likelihood, he cursed the tea-party on the lawn. He had not foreseen this drawback. But, being a masterful man, he tackled the situation boldly.
“I seized the opportunity of a friendly chat with you to-day, Doris,” he went on, leaning over the fence to inhale the scent of a briar rose. “The story runs through the village that you and your father dined at The Hollies on Friday evening. Is that true?”
Now, Doris had it on reliable authority that Siddle himself had been the runner who spread that story, and the knowledge steeled her heart against him.
“Yes,” she said composedly.
“It was kind and neighborly of you to accept the invitation, but a mistake.”