Resolving instantly that if an unpleasant thing had to be done it should at least be done well, she smiled brightly.
"See what you have driven me to--breaking the Sabbath," she cried, holding up the bag of cakes.
"Tea and bread-and-butter with you would be a feast for the gods," said Siddle.
"Now you're adapting Omar Khayyam." "Who's he ?" "A Persian poet of long ago." "I never read poetry.

But, if your tastes lie that way, I'll accomplish some more adaptation." "Oh, no, please.

Cakes for you, Mr.Siddle; poets for giddy young things like me." There was a sting in the words.

Doris preened herself on having carried out the detective's instructions to the letter thus far.
Arrived in the house she found her father still in the garden, examining some larvae under a microscope.

He looked severe rather than studious.
He might have been an omnipotent being who had detected a malefactor in a criminal act.