“In whom would you confide?”
“My father, of course.”
“I know you better,” and the detective’s voice took on a profoundly serious note. “Your father would never admit that what he knows to be true of bees is equally true of humanity. You can trust the police to keep a pretty sharp eye on Siddle, of course, but the present is a strenuous period, both for us and for people with maniacal tendencies, so accidents may happen.”
“You have distressed me immeasurably,” said the girl, striving to pierce the mask of that inscrutable face.
“I meant to,” answered Furneaux quietly. “No half measures for me. I’ve looked up the asylum record of Mrs. Siddle, senior, and it’s not nice reading.”
“There was a Mrs. Siddle, junior, then?”
“A Mrs. Theodore Siddle, if one adopts the conventional usage. Yes. She died last month.”
“Last month!” gasped Doris, feeling vaguely that she was moving in a maze of deceit and subterfuge.
“On May 25th, to be precise. She lived apart from her husband. I have reason to believe she feared him.”
“Yet—”