this morning. Superintendent, Horton Asylum.'"

"In an asylum, too," said the girl, speaking at random.

"Yes. Horton is the place for epileptic lunatics, near Epsom, you know."

"I didn't know. Does it mean that--that she was an epileptic lunatic?"

"So I should imagine, from the wording. If a nurse, or a matron, they'd
surely describe her as such."

"I suppose we ought not to discuss Mr. Siddle's telegram," said Doris,
after a pause.

"Well, no. But where's the harm? I wouldn't have yelled out the news if
we three weren't alone. Where's that boy?"

"Gone to his dinner. Father will take it. By the way, say nothing to him
as to the contents. Would you mind calling him?"

Doris hurried swiftly to the sitting-room, and thence upstairs. The
telegraphist explained the absence of a messenger, so Mr. Martin
delivered the telegram in person.

Crossing the street, he detected a dead bee. He picked it up, horrified
at the thought that the Isle of Wight disease might have reached Sussex.
So it was an absent-minded postmaster who handed the telegram over
Siddle's counter, inquiring laconically:

"Is there any answer?"

Siddle opened the buff envelope, and read. He glanced sharply at Martin.

"No," he said. "What's wrong with that bee?"

"I don't know. I have my doubts. When I have a moment to spare I'll put
it under the microscope."

Siddle examined the telegram again. The handwriting was that beloved of
Civil Service Commissioners. Unquestionably, it was not Doris's. No
sooner had his friend gone off, still intent on the dead insect, than
Siddle followed. He knew that the bee would undergo scientific scrutiny
at once, so gave Martin just enough time to dive into the sitting-room
before entering the post office.

"Did you receive this telegram a few minutes ago!" he inquired.

The young man became severely official.

"Which telegram?" he said stiffly.

"This one," and Siddle gave him the written message.

"Yes," was the answer.

"Excuse me, but--er--are its contents known to you only?"

"What do you mean, sir? It would cost me my berth if I divulged a word of
it to anyone."

"I'm sorry. Pray don't take offense. I--I'm anxious that my friends,
Mr. and Miss Martin, should not hear of it. That is what I really
have in mind."

The telegraphist cooled down.

"You may be quite sure that neither they nor any other person in
Steynholme will ever see the duplicate," he said confidentially. "I make
up a packag