here's an old adage, 'Birds of a feather flock together.' I
would go farther, and interpolate the word 'should.' If Adelaide Melhuish
had never met me, but had married the man who could write her plays, this
tragedy in real life would never have been."

"D--n him," muttered Elkin fiercely. "He's done for now, anyhow. He'll
turn no more girls' heads for a bit."

"An' five minutes since you yapped at me like a vicious fox-terrier for
'intin' much the same thing," chortled Hobbs.

Siddle stood up.

"You ain't goin', Mr. Siddle?" went on the butcher. "It's 'ardly 'arf
past nine."

"I have some accounts to get out. It's near the half year, you know," and
Siddle vanished unobtrusively.

Hobbs shook his head, and gazed at Elkin as though the latter was a
refractory bullock.

"Siddle's a fair-minded chap," he said. "He can't stand 'earin' any of us
'angin' a man without a fair trial."

Ingerman had marked the chemist for more subtle treatment when an
opportunity arose, or could be made. At present, he was not sorry such a
restraining influence was removed. The next half hour should prove a
golden one if well utilized. He was right. Before the inn was cleared,
what between Elkin's savage comments and the other men's thinly-veiled
allusions, he knew all that Steynholme could tell with regard to Grant
and Doris Martin.

Grant's first thought next morning was of the girl who had been thrust so
prominently into his life by the death of another woman. That was,
perhaps, the strangest outcome of the tragedy. Doris was easily the
prettiest and most intelligent girl in the village, a rare combination in
itself, even among young ladies of much higher social position than a
postmaster's daughter. But her father was a self-educated man, whose life
had been given to books, whose only hobby was the culture and study of
bees. He had often refused promotion, solely because his duties at
Steynholme were light, and permitted of many free hours. In his only
child he found a quick pupil and a sympathetic helper. Of her own accord
she took to poetry and music. In effect, had Doris Martin attended the
best of boarding-schools and training colleges, she would have received a
smattering of French and a fair knowledge of the piano or violin,
whereas, after more humble tuition, it might fairly be said of her that
few girls of her age had read so many books and assimilated their
contents so thoroughly. From her mother she inherited her good lo