Furneaux
thinks so, and I agree with him absolutely. After five days, where are
we, Mr. Fowler? In the dark, plus a brigand's hat and hair. But there's
a queer belief in some parts of England that a phosphorescent gleam
shows at night over a deep pool in which a dead body lies. That's just
how I feel about Siddle. The man's an enigma. What sort of place is
Steynholme for a chemist of his capacities? Dr. Foxton has the highest
regard for him professionally, and I'm told he doctors people for miles
around. Yet he lives the life of a recluse. An old woman comes by day
to prepare his meals, and tidy the house and shop. His sole relaxation
is an hour of an evening in the village inn, his visits there being
uninterrupted since the murder. He was there on the night of the
murder, too. For the rest, he is alone, shut off from the world.
Without knowing it, he's going to fall into deep waters to-day, and
he'll emit sparks, or I'm a Chinaman.... I'll leave you here. Good-by!
See you on Tuesday, after lunch."
The superintendent drove on alone. He pondered the Steynholme affair in
all its bearings, but mostly did he weigh up Winter and Furneaux. At
last, he sighed.
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