bade his friend stop profaning a peaceful Sunday afternoon.

"You'll have a glass of beer now?" went on the host.

"I don't mind if I do, sir, though it's tea-time, and I make it a rule on
Sundays to have tea with the missis. A policeman's hours are broken up,
and his wife hardly ever knows when to have a meal ready."

Minnie was summoned. It took her a couple of minutes to draw the beer
from a cool cellar. So it chanced that when Doris led Mr. Siddle to the
edge of the cliff about twenty-five minutes past four, the first thing
they saw was the local police-constable on the lawn of The Hollies
putting down a gill of "best Sussex" at a draught.

"Well!" cried the chemist icily, "I wonder what Superintendent Fowler
would say to that if he knew it?"

"What is there particularly wrong about Robinson drinking a glass of
beer?" demanded Doris, more alive to the insinuation in Siddle's words
than was quite permissible under the role imposed on her by Winter.

She waved her hand to the party on the lawn. Grant, whose eyes ever
roved in that direction, had seen her white muslin dress the moment
she appeared.

"Who the deuce is that with Miss Martin?" he said, returning her signal.

"Siddle, the chemist," announced Robinson, not too well pleased himself
at being "spotted" so openly. "Well, gentlemen, I'll be off," and he
vanished by the side path through the laurels.

"Siddle!" repeated Grant vexedly. "So it is. And she dislikes the man,
for some reason."

"Let's go and rescue the fair maid," prompted Hart.

"No, no. If Doris wanted me she would let me know."

"How? At the top of her voice?"

"You're far too curious, Wally."

"Semaphore, of course," drawled Hart. "When are you going to marry the
girl, Jack!"

"As soon as this infernal business has blown over."

"You haven't asked her, I gather?"

"No."

"Tell me when you do, and I'll hie me to London town, though in torrid
June. You're unbearable in love."

"The lash of your wit cuts deeply sometimes," said Grant quietly.

"Dash it all, old chap, I was talking at random. Very well. I'll do
penance in sackcloth and ashes by remaining here, and applauding your
poetic efforts. I'll even help. I'm a dab at sonnets."

Meanwhile, Mr. Siddle had regained his poise.

"I meant nothing offensive to the donor of the beer," he said, tuning his
voice to an apologetic note. "But I take it Robinson is conducting
certain inquiries, and I imagine that his superiors dema