"I say yes to that, doctor," answered Mitchington.

"The same here, sir," said the detective.

"Very well," continued Ransford. "Then—this is between ourselves, until such time as I say something more about it. First of all, I am not going to tell you anything whatever about Braden's antecedents—at present! Secondly—I am not sure that your theory, Mr. Jettison, is entirely correct, though I think it is by way of coming very near to the right one—which is sure to be worked out before long. But—on the understanding of secrecy for the present I can tell you something which I should not have been able to tell you but for the events of tonight, which have made me put together certain facts. Now attention! To begin with, I know where Braden was for at any rate some time on the evening of the day on which he came to Wrychester. He was with the old man whom we all know as Simpson Harker."

Mitchington whistled; the detective, who knew nothing of Simpson Harker, glanced at him as if for information. But Mitchington nodded at Ransford, and Ransford went on.

"I know this for this reason," he continued. "You know where Harker lives. I was in attendance for nearly two hours that evening on a patient in a house opposite—I spent a good deal of time in looking out of the window. I saw Harker take a man into his house: I saw the man leave the house nearly an hour later: I recognized that man next day as the man who met his death at the Cathedral. So much for that."

"Good!" muttered Mitchington. "Good! Explains a lot."

"But," continued Ransford, "what I have to tell you now is of a much more serious—and confidential—nature. Now, do you know—but, of course, you don't!—that your proceedings tonight were watched?"

"Watched!" exclaimed Mitchington. "Who watched us?"

"Harker, for one," answered Ransford. "And—for another—my late assistant, Mr. Pemberton Bryce."

Mitchington's jaw dropped.

"God bless my soul!" he said. "You don't mean it, doctor! Why, how did you—"

"Wait a minute," interrupted Ransford. He left the room, and the two callers looked at each other.

"This chap knows more than you think," observed Jettison in a whisper. "More than he's telling now!"

"Let's get all we can, then," said Mitchington, who was obviously much surprised by Ransford's last information. "Get it while he's in the mood."

"Let him take his own time," advised Jettison. "But—you mark me!—he knows a lot! This is only an instalment."

Ransford came back—with Dick Bewery, clad in a loud patterned and gaily coloured suit of pyjamas.

"Now, Dick," said Ransford. "Tell Inspector Mitchington precisely what happened this evening, within your own knowledge."

Dick was nothing loth to tell his story for the second time—especially to a couple of professional listeners. And he told it in full detail, from the moment of his sudden encounter with Bryce to that in which he parted with Bryce and Harker. Ransford, watching the official faces, saw what it was in the story that caught the official attention and excited the official mind.

"Dr. Bryce went off at once to fetch Harker, did he?" asked Mitchington, when Dick had made a end.

"At once," answered Dick. "And was jolly quick back with him!"

"And Harker said it didn't matter about your telling as it would be public news soon enough?" continued Mitchington.

"Just that," said Dick.

Mitchington looked at Ransford, and Ransford nodded to his ward.

"All right, Dick," he said. "That'll do."

The boy went off again, and Mitchington shook his head.

"Queer!" he said. "Now what have those two been up to?—something, that's certain. Can you tell us more, doctor?"

"Under the same conditions—yes," answered Ransford, taking his seat again. "The fact is, affairs have got to a stage where I consider it my duty to tell you more. Some of what I shall tell you is hearsay—but it's hearsay that you can easily verify for yourselves when the right moment comes. Mr. Campany, the librarian, lately remarked to me that my old assistant, Mr. Bryce, seemed to be taking an extraordinary interest in archaeological matters since he left me—he was now, said Campany, always examining documents about the old tombs and monuments of the Cathedral and its precincts."

"Ah—just so!" exclaimed Mitchington. "To be sure!—I'm beginning to see!"

"And," continued Ransford, "Campany further remarked, as a matter for humorous comment, that Bryce was also spending much time looking round our old tombs. Now you made this discovery near an old tomb, I understand?"

"Close by one—yes," assented the inspector.

"Then let me draw your attention to one or two strange facts—which are undoubted facts," continued Ransford. "Bryce was left alone with the dead body of Braden for some minutes, while Varner went to fetch the police. That's one."

"That's true," muttered Mitchington. "He was—several minutes!"

"Bryce it was who discovered Collishaw—in Paradise," said Ransford. "That's fact two. And fact three—Bryce evidently had a motive in fetching Harker tonight—to overlook your operations. What was his motive? And taking things altogether; what are, or have been, these secret affairs which Bryce and Harker have evidently been engaged in?"

Jettison suddenly rose, buttoning his light overcoat. The action seemed to indicate a newly-formed idea, a definite conclusion. He turned sharply to Mitchington.

"There's one thing certain, inspector," he said. "You'll keep an eye on those two from this out! From—just now!"

"I shall!" assented Mitchington. "I'll have both of 'em shadowed wherever they go or are, day or night. Harker, now, has always been a bit of a mystery, but Bryce—hang me if I don't believe he's been having me! Double game!—but, never mind. There's no more, doctor?"

"Not yet," replied Ransford. "And I don't know the real meaning or value of what I have told you. But—in two days from now, I can tell you more. In the meantime—remember your promise!"

He let his visitors out then, and went back to Mary.

"You'll not have to wait long for things to clear," he said. "The mystery's nearly over!"



CHAPTER XVIII. SURPRISE

Mitchington and the man from New Scotland Yard walked away in silence from Ransford's house and kept the silence up until they were in the middle of the Close and accordingly in solitude. Then Mitchington turned to his companion.

"What d'ye think of that?" he asked, with a half laugh. "Different complexion it puts on things, eh?"

"I think just what I said before—in there," replied the detective. "That man knows more than he's told, even now!"

"Why hasn't he spoken sooner, then?" demanded Mitchington. "He's had two good chances—at the inquests."

"From what I saw of him, just now," said Jettison, "I should say he's the sort of man who can keep his own counsel till he considers the right time has come for speaking. Not the sort of man who'll care twopence whatever's said about him, you understand? I should say he's known a good lot all along, and is just keeping it back till he can put a finishing touch to it. Two days, didn't he say? Aye, well, a lot can happen in two days!"

"But about your theory?" questioned Mitchington. "What do you think of it now—in relation to what we've just heard?"

"I'll tell you what I can see," answered Jettison. "I can see how one bit of this puzzle fits into another—in view of what Ransford has just told us. Of course, one's got to do a good deal of supposing it's unavoidable in these cases. Now supposing Braden let this man Harker into the secret of the hidden jewels that night, and supposing that Harker and Bryce are in collusion—as they evidently are, from what that boy told us—and supposing they between them, together or separately, had to do with Braden's death, and supposing that man Collishaw saw some thing that would incriminate one or both—eh?"

"Well?" asked Mitchington.

"Bryce is a medical man," observed Jettison. "It would be an easy thing for a medical man to get rid of Collishaw as he undoubtedly was got rid of. Do you see my point?"

"Aye—and I can see that Bryce is a clever hand at throwing dust in anybody's eyes!" muttered Mitchington. "I've had some dealings with him over this affair and I'm beginning to think—only now!—that he's been having me for the mug! He's evidently a deep 'un—and so's the other man."

"I wanted to ask you that," said Jettison. "Now, exactly who are these two?—tell me about them—both."

"Not so much to tell," answered Mitchington. "Harker's a quiet old chap who lives in a little house over there—just off that far corner of this Close. Said to be a retired tradesman, from London. Came here a few years ago, to settle down. Inoffensive, pleasant old chap. Potters about the town—puts in his time as such old chaps do—bit of reading at the libraries—bit of gossip here and—there you know the sort. Last man in the world I should have thought would have been mixed up in an affair of this sort!"

"And therefore all the more likely to be!" said Jettison. "Well—the other?"

"Bryce was until the very day of Braden's appearance, Ransford's assistant," continued Mitchington. "Been with Ransford about two years. Clever chap, undoubtedly, but certainly deep and, in a way, reserved, though he can talk plenty if he's so minded and it's to his own advantage. He left Ransford suddenly—that very morning. I don't know why. Since then he's remained in the town. I've heard that he's pretty keen on Ransford's ward—sister of that lad we saw tonight. I don't know myself, if it's true—but I've wondered if that had anything to do with his leaving Ransford so suddenly."

"Very likely," said Jettison. They had crossed the Close by that time and come to a gas-lamp which stood at the entrance, and the detective pulled out his watch and glanced at it. "Ten past eleven," he said. "You say you know this Bryce pretty well? Now, would it be too late—if he's up still—to take a look at him! If you and he are on good terms, you could make an excuse. After what I've heard, I'd like to get at close quarters with this gentleman."

"Easy enough," assented Mitchington. "I've been there as late as this—he's one of the sort that never goes to bed before midnight. Come on!—it's close by. But—not a word of where we've been. I'll say I've dropped in to give him a bit of news. We'll tell him about the jewel business—and see how he takes it. And while we're there—size him up!"

Mitchington was right in his description of Bryce's habits—Bryce rarely went to bed before one o'clock in the morning. He liked to sit up, reading. His favourite mental food was found in the lives of statesmen and diplomatists, most of them of the sort famous for trickery and chicanery—he not only made a close study of the ways of these gentry but wrote down notes and abstracts of passages which particularly appealed to him. His lamp was burning when Mitchington and Jettison came in view of his windows—but that night Bryce was doing no thinking about statecraft: his mind was fixed on his own affairs. He had lighted his fire on going home and for an hour had sat with his legs stretched out on the fender, carefully weighing things up. The event of the night had convinced him that he was at a critical phase of his present adventure, and it behoved him, as a good general, to review his forces.

The forestalling of his plans about the hiding-place in Paradise had upset Bryce's schemes—he had figured on being able to turn that secret, whatever it was, to his own advantage. It struck him now, as he meditated, that he had never known exactly what he expected to get out of that secret—but he had hoped that it would have been something which would make a few more considerable and tightly-strung meshes in the net which he was endeavouring to weave around Ransford. Now he was faced by the fact that it was not going to yield anything in the way of help—it was a secret no longer, and it had yielded nothing beyond the mere knowledge that John Braden, who was in reality John Brake, had carried the secret to Warchester—to reveal it in the proper quarter. That helped Bryce in no way—so far as he could see. And therefore it was necessary to re-state his case to himself; to take stock; to see where he stood—and more than all, to put plainly before his own mind exactly what he wanted.

And just before Mitchington and the detective came up the path to his door, Bryce had put his notions into clear phraseology. His aim was definite—he wanted to get Ransford completely into his power, through suspicion of Ransford's guilt in the affairs of Braden and Collishaw. He wanted, at the same time, to have the means of exonerating him—whether by fact or by craft—so that, as an ultimate method of success for his own projects he would be able to go to Mary Bewery and say "Ransford's very life is at my mercy: if I keep silence, he's lost: if I speak, he's saved: it's now for you to say whether I'm to speak or hold my tongue—and you're the price I want for my speaking to save him!" It was in accordance with his views of human nature that Mary Bewery would accede to his terms: he had not known her and Ransford for nothing, and he was aware that she had a profound gratitude for her guardian, which might even be akin to a yet unawakened warmer feeling. The probability was that she would willingly sacrifice herself to save Ransford—and Bryce cared little by what means he won her, fair or foul, so long as he was successful. So now, he said to himself, he must make a still more definite move against Ransford. He must strengthen and deepen the suspicions which the police already had: he must give them chapter and verse and supply them with information, and get Ransford into the tightest of corners, solely that, in order to win Mary Bewery, he might have the credit of pulling him out again. That, he felt certain, he could do—if he could make a net in which to enclose Ransford he could also invent a two-edged sword which would cut every mesh of that net into fragments. That would be—child's play—mere statecraft—elementary diplomacy. But first—to get Ransford fairly bottled up—that was the thing! He determined to lose no more time—and he was thinking of visiting Mitchington immediately after breakfast next morning when Mitchington knocked at his door.

Bryce was rarely taken back, and on seeing Mitchington and a companion, he forthwith invited them into his parlour, put out his whisky and cigars, and pressed both on them as if their late call were a matter of usual occurrence. And when he had helped both to a drink, he took one himself, and tumbler in hand, dropped into his easy chair again.

"We saw your light, doctor—so I took the liberty of dropping into tell you a bit of news," observed the inspector. "But I haven't introduced my friend—this is Detective-Sergeant Jettison, of the Yard—we've got him down about this business—must have help, you know."

Bryce gave the detective a half-sharp, half-careless look and nodded.

"Mr. Jettison will have abundant opportunities for the exercise of his talents!" he observed in his best cynical manner. "I dare say he's found that out already."

"Not an easy affair, sir, to be sure," assented Jettison. "Complicated!"

"Highly so!" agreed Bryce. He yawned, and glanced at the inspector. "What's your news, Mitchington?" he asked, almost indifferently.

"Oh, well!" answered Mitchington. "As the Herald's published tomorrow you'll see it in there, doctor—I've supplied an account for this week's issue; just a short one—but I thought you'd like to know. You've heard of the famous jewel robbery at the Duke's, some years ago? Yes?—well, we've found all the whole bundle tonight—buried in Paradise! And how do you think the secret came out?"

"No good at guessing," said Bryce.

"It came out," continued Mitchington, "through a man who, with Braden—Braden, mark you!—got in possession of it—it's a long story—and, with Braden, was going to reveal it to the Duke that very day Braden was killed. This man waited until this very morning and then told his Grace—his Grace came with him to us this afternoon, and tonight we made a search and found—everything! Buried—there in Paradise! Dug 'em up, doctor!"

Bryce showed no great interest. He took a leisurely sip at his liquor and set down the glass and pulled out his cigarette case. The two men, watching him narrowly, saw that his fingers were steady as rocks as he struck the match.

"Yes," he said as he threw the match away. "I saw you busy."

In spite of himself Mitchington could not repress a start nor a glance at Jettison. But Jettison was as imperturbable as Bryce himself, and Mitchington raised a forced laugh.

"You did!" he said, incredulously. "And we thought we had it all to ourselves! How did you come to know, doctor?"

"Young Bewery told me what was going on," replied Bryce, "so I took a look at you. And I fetched old Harker to take a look, too. We all watched you—the boy, Harker, and I—out of sheer curiosity, of course. We saw you get up the parcel. But, naturally, I didn't know what was in it—till now."

Mitchington, thoroughly taken aback by this candid statement, was at a loss for words, and again he glanced at Jettison. But Jettison gave no help, and Mitchington fell back on himself.

"So you fetched old Harker?" he said. "What—what for, doctor? If one may ask, you know."

Bryce made a careless gesture with his cigarette.

"Oh—old Harker's deeply interested in what's going on," he answered. "And as young Bewery drew my attention to your proceedings, why, I thought I'd draw Harker's. And Harker was—interested."

Mitchington hesitated before saying more. But eventually he risked a leading question.

"Any special reason why he should be, doctor?" he asked.

Bryce put his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat and looked half-lazily at his questioner.

"Do you know who old Harker really is?" he inquired.

"No!" answered Mitchington. "I know nothing about him—except that he's said to be a retired tradesman, from London, who settled down here some time ago."

Bryce suddenly turned on Jettison.

"Do you?" he asked.

"I, sir!" exclaimed Jettison. "I don't know this gentleman—at all!"

Bryce laughed—with his usual touch of cynical sneering.

"I'll tell you—now—who old Harker is, Mitchington," he said. "You may as well know. I thought Mr. Jettison might recognize the name. Harker is no retired London tradesman—he's a retired member of your profession, Mr. Jettison. He was in his day one of the smartest men in the service of your department. Only he's transposed his name—ask them at the Yard if they remember Harker Simpson? That seems to startle you, Mitchington! Well, as you're here, perhaps I'd better startle you a bit more."



CHAPTER XIX. THE SUBTLETY OF THE DEVIL

There was a sudden determination and alertness in Bryce's last words which contrasted strongly, and even strangely, with the almost cynical indifference that had characterized him since his visitors came in, and the two men recognized it and glanced questioningly at each other. There was an alteration, too, in his manner; instead of lounging lazily in his chair, as if he had no other thought than of personal ease, he was now sitting erect, looking sharply from one man to the other; his whole attitude, bearing, speech seemed to indicate that he had suddenly made up his mind to adopt some definite course of action.

"I'll tell you more!" he repeated. "And, since you're here—now!"

Mitchington, who felt a curious uneasiness, gave Jettison another glance. And this time it was Jettison who spoke.

"I should say," he remarked quietly, "knowing what I've gathered of the matter, that we ought to be glad of any information Dr. Bryce can give us."

"Oh, to be sure!" assented Mitchington. "You know more, then, doctor?"

Bryce motioned his visitors to draw their chairs nearer to his, and when he spoke it was in the low, concentrated tones of a man who means business—and confidential business.

"Now look here, Mitchington," he said, "and you, too, Mr. Jettison, as you're on this job—I'm going to talk straight to both of you. And to begin with, I'll make a bold assertion—I know more of this Wrychester Paradise mystery—involving the deaths of both Braden and Collishaw, than any man living—because, though you don't know it, Mitchington, I've gone right into it. And I'll tell you in confidence why I went into it—I want to marry Dr. Ransford's ward, Miss Bewery!"

Bryce accompanied this candid admission with a look which seemed to say: Here we are, three men of the world, who know what things are—we understand each other! And while Jettison merely nodded comprehendingly, Mitchington put his thoughts into words.

"To be sure, doctor, to be sure!" he said. "And accordingly—what's their affair, is yours! Of course!"

"Something like that," assented Bryce. "Naturally no man wishes to marry unless he knows as much as he can get to know about the woman he wants, her family, her antecedents—and all that. Now, pretty nearly everybody in Wrychester who knows them, knows that there's a mystery about Dr. Ransford and his two wards—it's been talked of, no end, amongst the old dowagers and gossips of the Close, particularly—you know what they are! Miss Bewery herself, and her brother, young Dick, in a lesser degree, know there's a mystery. And if there's one man in the world who knows the secret, it's Ransford. And, up to now, Ransford won't tell—he won't even tell Miss Bewery. I know that she's asked him—he keeps up an obstinate silence. And so—I determined to find things out for myself."

"Aye—and when did you start on that little game, now, doctor?" asked Mitchington. "Was it before, or since, this affair developed?"

"In a really serious way—since," replied Bryce. "What happened on the day of Braden's death made me go thoroughly into the whole matter. Now, what did happen? I'll tell you frankly, now, Mitchington, that when we talked once before about this affair, I didn't tell you all I might have told. I'd my reasons for reticence. But now I'll give you full particulars of what happened that morning within my knowledge—pay attention, both of you, and you'll see how one thing fits into another. That morning, about half-past nine, Ransford left his surgery and went across the Close. Not long after he'd gone, this man Braden came to the door, and asked me if Dr. Ransford was in? I said he wasn't—he'd just gone out, and I showed the man in which direction. He said he'd once known a Dr. Ransford, and went away. A little later, I followed. Near the entrance of Paradise, I saw Ransford leaving the west porch of the Cathedral. He was undeniably in a state of agitation—pale, nervous. He didn't see me. I went on and met Varner, who told me of the accident. I went with him to the foot of St. Wrytha's Stair and found the man who had recently called at the surgery. He died just as I reached him. I sent for you. When you came, I went back to the surgery—I found Ransford there in a state of most unusual agitation—he looked like a man who has had a terrible shock. So much for these events. Put them together."

Bryce paused awhile, as if marshalling his facts.

"Now, after that," he continued presently, "I began to investigate matters myself—for my own satisfaction. And very soon I found out certain things—which I'll summarize, briefly, because some of my facts are doubtless known to you already. First of all—the man who came here as John Braden was, in reality, one John Brake. He was at one time manager of a branch of a well-known London banking company. He appropriated money from them under apparently mysterious circumstances of which I, as yet, knew nothing; he was prosecuted, convicted, and sentenced to ten years' penal servitude. And those two wards of Ransford's, Mary and Richard Bewery, as they are called, are, in reality, Mary and Richard Brake—his children."

"You've established that as a fact?" asked Jettison, who was listening with close attention. "It's not a surmise on your part?"

Bryce hesitated before replying to this question. After all, he reflected, it was a surmise. He could not positively prove his assertion.

"Well," he answered after a moment's thought, "I'll qualify that by saying that from the evidence I have, and from what I know, I believe it to be an indisputable fact. What I do know of fact, hard, positive fact, is this:—John Brake married a Mary Bewery at the parish church of Braden Medworth, near Barthorpe, in Leicestershire: I've seen the entry in the register with my own eyes. His best man, who signed the register as a witness, was Mark Ransford. Brake and Ransford, as young men, had been in the habit of going to Braden Medworth to fish; Mary Bewery was governess at the vicarage there. It was always supposed she would marry Ransford; instead, she married Brake, who, of course, took her off to London. Of their married life, I know nothing. But within a few years, Brake was in trouble, for the reason I have told you. He was arrested—and Harker was the man who arrested him."

"Dear me!" exclaimed Mitchington. "Now, if I'd only known—"

"You'll know a lot before I'm through," said Bryce. "Now, Harker, of course, can tell a lot—yet it's unsatisfying. Brake could make no defence—but his counsel threw out strange hints and suggestions—all to the effect that Brake had been cruelly and wickedly deceived—in fact, as it were, trapped into doing what he did. And—by a man whom he'd trusted as a close friend. So much came to Harker's ears—but no more, and on that particular point I've no light. Go on from that to Brake's private affairs. At the time of his arrest he had a wife and two very young children. Either just before, or at, or immediately after his arrest they completely disappeared—and Brake himself utterly refused to say one single word about them. Harker asked if he could do anything—Brake's answer was that no one was to concern himself. He preserved an obstinate silence on that point. The clergyman in whose family Mrs. Brake had been governess saw Brake, after his conviction—Brake would say nothing to him. Of Mrs. Brake, nothing more is known—to me at any rate. What was known at the time is this—Brake communicated to all who came in contact with him, just then, the idea of a man who has been cruelly wronged and deceived, who takes refuge in sullen silence, and who is already planning and cherishing—revenge!"

"Aye, aye!" muttered Mitchington. "Revenge?—just So!"

"Brake, then," continued Bryce, "goes off to his term of penal servitude, and so disappears—until he reappears here in Wrychester. Leave him for a moment, and go back. And—it's a going back, no doubt, to supposition and to theory—but there's reason in what I shall advance. We know—beyond doubt—that Brake had been tricked and deceived, in some money matter, by some man—some mysterious man—whom he referred to as having been his closest friend. We know, too, that there was extraordinary mystery in the disappearance of his wife and children. Now, from all that has been found out, who was Brake's closest friend? Ransford! And of Ransford, at that time, there's no trace. He, too, disappeared—that's a fact which I've established. Years later, he reappears—here at Wrychester, where he's bought a practice. Eventually he has two young people, who are represented as his wards, come to live with him. Their name is Bewery. The name of the young woman whom John Brake married was Bewery. What's the inference? That their mother's dead—that they're known under her maiden name: that they, without a shadow of doubt, are John Brake's children. And that leads up to my theory—which I'll now tell you in confidence—if you wish for it."

"It's what I particularly wish for," observed Jettison quietly. "The very thing!"

"Then, it's this," said Bryce. "Ransford was the close friend who tricked and deceived Brake:

"He probably tricked him in some money affair, and deceived him in his domestic affairs. I take it that Ransford ran away with Brake's wife, and that Brake, sooner than air all his grievance to the world, took it silently and began to concoct his ideas of revenge. I put the whole thing this way. Ransford ran away with Mrs. Brake and the two children—mere infants—and disappeared. Brake, when he came out of prison, went abroad—possibly with the idea of tracking them. Meanwhile, as is quite evident, he engaged in business and did well. He came back to England as John Braden, and, for the reason of which you're aware, he paid a visit to Wrychester, utterly unaware that any one known to him lived here. Now, try to reconstruct what happened. He looks round the Close that morning. He sees the name of Dr. Mark Ransford on the brass plate of a surgery door. He goes to the surgery, asks a question, makes a remark, goes away. What is the probable sequence of events? He meets Ransford near the Cathedral—where Ransford certainly was. They recognize each other—most likely they turn aside, go up to that gallery as a quiet place, to talk—there is an altercation—blows—somehow or other, probably from accident, Braden is thrown through that open doorway, to his death. And—Collishaw saw what happened!"

Bryce was watching his listeners, turning alternately from one to the other. But it needed little attention on his part to see that theirs was already closely strained; each man was eagerly taking in all that he said and suggested. And he went on emphasizing every point as he made it.

"Collishaw saw what happened?" he repeated. "That, of course, is theory—supposition. But now we pass from theory back to actual fact. I'll tell you something now, Mitchington, which you've never heard of, I'm certain. I made it in my way, after Collishaw's death, to get some information, secretly, from his widow, who's a fairly shrewd, intelligent woman for her class. Now, the widow, in looking over her husband's effects, in a certain drawer in which he kept various personal matters, came across the deposit book of a Friendly Society of which Collishaw had been a member for some years. It appears that he, Collishaw, was something of a saving man, and every year he managed to put by a bit of money out of his wages, and twice or thrice in the year he took these savings—never very much; merely a pound or two—to this Friendly Society, which, it seems, takes deposits in that way from its members. Now, in this book is an entry—I saw it—which shows that only two days before his death, Collishaw paid fifty pounds—fifty pounds, mark you!—into the Friendly Society. Where should Collishaw get fifty pounds, all of a sudden! He was a mason's labourer, earning at the very outside twenty-six or eight shillings a week. According to his wife, there was no one to leave him a legacy. She never heard of his receipt of this money from any source. But—there's the fact! What explains it? My theory—that the rumour that Collishaw, with a pint too much ale in him, had hinted that he could say something about Braden's death if he chose, had reached Braden's assailant; that he had made it his business to see Collishaw and had paid him that fifty pounds as hush-money—and, later, had decided to rid himself of Collishaw altogether, as he undoubtedly did, by poison."

Once more Bryce paused—and once more the two listeners showed their attention by complete silence.

"Now we come to the question—how was Collishaw poisoned?" continued Bryce. "For poisoned he was, without doubt. Here we go back to theory and supposition once more. I haven't the least doubt that the hydrocyanic acid which caused his death was taken by him in a pill—a pill that was in that box which they found on him, Mitchington, and showed me. But that particular pill, though precisely similar in appearance, could not be made up of the same ingredients which were in the other pills. It was probably a thickly coated pill which contained the poison;—in solution of course. The coating would melt almost as soon as the man had swallowed it—and death would result instantaneously. Collishaw, you may say, was condemned to death when he put that box of pills in his waistcoat pocket. It was mere chance, mere luck, as to when the exact moment of death came to him. There had been six pills in that box—there were five left. So Collishaw picked out the poisoned pill—first! It might have been delayed till the sixth dose, you see—but he was doomed."

Mitchington showed a desire to speak, and Bryce paused.

"What about what Ransford said before the Coroner?" asked Mitchington. "He demanded certain information about the post-mortem, you know, which, he said, ought to have shown that there was nothing poisonous in those pills."

"Pooh!" exclaimed Bryce contemptuously. "Mere bluff! Of such a pill as that I've described there'd be no trace but the sugar coating—and the poison. I tell you, I haven't the least doubt that that was how the poison was administered. It was easy. And—who is there that would know how easily it could be administered but—a medical man?"

Mitchington and Jettison exchanged glances. Then Jettison leaned nearer to Bryce.

"So your theory is that Ransford got rid of both Braden and Collishaw—murdered both of them, in fact?" he suggested. "Do I understand that's what it really comes to—in plain words?"

"Not quite," replied Bryce. "I don't say that Ransford meant to kill Braden—my notion is that they met, had an altercation, probably a struggle, and that Braden lost his life in it. But as regards Collishaw—"

"Don't forget!" interrupted Mitchington. "Varner swore that he saw Braden flung through that doorway! Flung out! He saw a hand."

"For everything that Varner could prove to the contrary," answered Bryce, "the hand might have been stretched out to pull Braden back. No—I think there may have been accident in that affair. But, as regards Collishaw—murder, without doubt—deliberate!"

He lighted another cigarette, with the air of a man who had spoken his mind, and Mitchington, realizing that he had said all he had to say, got up from his seat.

"Well—it's all very interesting and very clever, doctor," he said, glancing at Jettison. "And we shall keep it all in mind. Of course, you've talked all this over with Harker? I should like to know what he has to say. Now that you've told us who he is, I suppose we can talk to him?"

"You'll have to wait a few days, then," said Bryce. "He's gone to town—by the last train tonight—on this business. I've sent him. I had some information today about Ransford's whereabouts during the time of disappearance, and I've commissioned Harker to examine into it. When I hear what he's found out, I'll let you know."

"You're taking some trouble," remarked Mitchington.

"I've told you the reason," answered Bryce.

Mitchington hesitated a little; then, with a motion of his head towards the door, beckoned Jettison to follow him.

"All right," he said. "There's plenty for us to see into, I'm thinking!"

Bryce laughed and pointed to a shelf of books near the fireplace.

"Do you know what Napoleon Bonaparte once gave as sound advice to police?" he asked. "No! Then I'll tell you. 'The art of the police,' he said, 'is not to see that which it is useless for it to see.' Good counsel, Mitchington!"

The two men went away through the midnight streets, and kept silence until they were near the door of Jettison's hotel. Then Mitchington spoke.

"Well!" he said. "We've had a couple of tales, anyhow! What do you think of things, now?"

Jettison threw back his head with a dry laugh.

"Never been better puzzled in all my time!" he said. "Never! But—if that young doctor's playing a game—then, by the Lord Harry, inspector, it's a damned deep 'un! And my advice is—watch the lot!"



CHAPTER XX. JETTISON TAKES A HAND

By breakfast time next morning the man from New Scotland Yard had accomplished a series of meditations on the confidences made to him and Mitchington the night before and had determined on at least one course of action. But before entering upon it he had one or two important letters to write, the composition of which required much thought and trouble, and by the time he had finished them, and deposited them by his own hand in the General Post Office, it was drawing near to noon—the great bell of the Cathedral, indeed, was proclaiming noontide to Wrychester as Jettison turned into the police-station and sought Mitchington in his office.

"I was just coming round to see if you'd overslept yourself," said Mitchington good-humouredly. "We were up pretty late last night, or, rather, this morning."

"I've had letters to write," said Jettison. He sat down and picked up a newspaper and cast a casual glance over it. "Got anything fresh?"

"Well, this much," answered Mitchington. "The two gentlemen who told us so much last night are both out of town. I made an excuse to call on them both early this morning—just on nine o'clock. Dr. Ransford went up to London by the eight-fifteen.

"Dr. Bryce, says his landlady, went out on his bicycle at half-past eight—where, she didn't know, but, she fancied, into the country. However, I ascertained that Ransford is expected back this evening, and Bryce gave orders for his usual dinner to be ready at seven o'clock, and so—"

Jettison flung away the newspaper and pulled out his pipe.

"Oh, I don't think they'll run away—either of 'em," he remarked indifferently. "They're both too cock-sure of their own ways of looking at things."

"You looked at 'em any more?" asked Mitchington.

"Done a bit of reflecting—yes," replied the detective. "Complicated affair, my lad! More in it than one would think at first sight. I'm certain of this quite apart from whatever mystery there is about the Braden affair and the Collishaw murder, there's a lot of scheming and contriving been going on—and is going on!—somewhere, by somebody. Underhand work, you understand? However, my particular job is the Collishaw business—and there's a bit of information I'd like to get hold of at once. Where's the office of that Friendly Society we heard about last night?"

"That'll be the Wrychester Second Friendly," answered Mitchington. "There are two such societies in the town—the first's patronized by small tradesmen and the like; the second by workingmen. The second does take deposits from its members. The office is in Fladgate—secretary's name outside—Mr. Stebbing. What are you after?"

"Tell you later," said Jettison. "Just an idea."

He went leisurely out and across the market square and into the narrow, old-world street called Fladgate, along which he strolled as if doing no more than looking about him until he came to an ancient shop which had been converted into an office, and had a wire blind over the lower half of its front window, wherein was woven in conspicuous gilt letters Wrychester Second Friendly Society—George Stebbing, Secretary. Nothing betokened romance or mystery in that essentially humble place, but it was in Jettison's mind that when he crossed its threshold he was on his way to discovering something that would possibly clear up the problem on which he was engaged.

The staff of the Second Friendly was inconsiderable in numbers—an outer office harboured a small boy and a tall young man; an inner one accommodated Mr. Stebbing, also a young man, sandy-haired and freckled, who, having inspected Detective-Sergeant Jettison's professional card, gave him the best chair in the room and stared at him with a mingling of awe and curiosity which plainly showed that he had never entertained a detective before. And as if to show his visitor that he realized the seriousness of the occasion, he nodded meaningly at his door.

"All safe, here, sir!" he whispered. "Well fitting doors in these old houses—knew how to make 'em in those days. No chance of being overheard here—what can I do for you, sir?"

"Thank you—much obliged to you," said Jettison. "No objection to my pipe, I suppose? Just so. Ah!—well, between you and me, Mr. Stebbing, I'm down here in connection with that Collishaw case—you know."

"I know, sir—poor fellow!" said the secretary. "Cruel thing, sir, if the man was put an end to. One of our members, was Collishaw, sir."

"So I understand," remarked Jettison. "That's what I've come about. Bit of information, on the quiet, eh? Strictly between our two selves—for the present."

Stebbing nodded and winked, as if he had been doing business with detectives all his life. "To be sure, sir, to be sure!" he responded with alacrity. "Just between you and me and the door post!-all right. Anything I can do, Mr. Jettison, shall be done. But it's more in the way of what I can tell, I suppose?"

"Something of that sort," replied Jettison in his slow, easy-going fashion. "I want to know a thing or two. Yours is a working-man's society, I think? Aye—and I understand you've a system whereby such a man can put his bits of savings by in your hands?"

"A capital system, too!" answered the secretary, seizing on a pamphlet and pushing it into his visitor's hand. "I don't believe there's better in England! If you read that—"

"I'll take a look at it some time," said Jettison, putting the pamphlet in his pocket. "Well, now, I also understand that Collishaw was in the habit of bringing you a bit of saved money now and then a sort of saving fellow, wasn't he?" Stebbing nodded assent and reached for a ledger which lay on the farther side of his desk.

"Collishaw," he answered, "had been a member of our society ever since it started—fourteen years ago. And he'd been putting in savings for some eight or nine years. Not much, you'll understand. Say, as an average, two to three pounds every half-year—never more. But, just before his death, or murder, or whatever you like to call it, he came in here one day with fifty pounds! Fairly astounded me, sir! Fifty pounds—all in a lump!"

"It's about that fifty pounds I want to know something," said Jettison. "He didn't tell you how he'd come by it? Wasn't a legacy, for instance?"

"He didn't say anything but that he'd had a bit of luck," answered Stebbing. "I asked no questions. Legacy, now?—no, he didn't mention that. Here it is," he continued, turning over the pages of the ledger. "There! 50 pounds. You see the date—that 'ud be two days before his death."

Jettison glanced at the ledger and resumed his seat.

"Now, then, Mr. Stebbing, I want you to tell me something very definite," he said. "It's not so long since this happened, so you'll not have to tag your memory to any great extent. In what form did Collishaw pay that fifty pounds to you?"

"That's easy answered, sir," said the secretary. "It was in gold. Fifty sovereigns—he had 'em in a bit of a bag." Jettison reflected on this information for a moment or two. Then he rose.

"Much obliged to you, Mr. Stebbing," he said. "That's something worth knowing. Now there's something else you can tell me as long as I'm here—though, to be sure, I could save you the trouble by using my own eyes. How many banks are there in this little city of yours?"

"Three," answered Stebbing promptly. "Old Bank, in Monday Market; Popham & Hargreaves, in the Square; Wrychester Bank, in Spurriergate. That's the lot."

"Much obliged," said Jettison. "And—for the present—not a word of what we've talked about. You'll be hearing more—later."

He went away, memorizing the names of the three banking establishments—ten minutes later he was in the private parlour of the first, in serious conversation with its manager. Here it was necessary to be more secret, and to insist on more secrecy than with the secretary of the Second Friendly, and to produce all his credentials and give all his reasons. But Jettison drew that covert blank, and the next, too, and it was not until he had been closeted for some time with the authorities of the third bank that he got, the information he wanted. And when he had got it, he impressed secrecy and silence on his informants in a fashion which showed them that however easy-going his manner might be, he knew his business as thoroughly as they knew theirs.

It was by that time past one o'clock, and Jettison turned into the small hotel at which he had lodged himself. He thought much and gravely while he ate his dinner; he thought still more while he smoked his after-dinner pipe. And his face was still heavy with thought when, at three o'clock, he walked into Mitchington's office and finding the inspector alone shut the door and drew a chair to Mitchington's desk.

"Now then," he said. "I've had a rare morning's work, and made a discovery, and you and me, my lad, have got to have about as serious a bit of talk as we've had since I came here."

Mitchington pushed his papers aside and showed his keen attention.

"You remember what that young fellow told us last night about that man Collishaw paying in fifty pounds to the Second Friendly two days before his death," said Jettison. "Well, I thought over that business a lot, early this morning, and I fancied I saw how I could find something out about it. So I have—on the strict quiet. That's why I went to the Friendly Society. The fact was—I wanted to know in what form Collishaw handed in that fifty pounds. I got to know. Gold!"

Mitchington, whose work hitherto had not led him into the mysteries of detective enterprise, nodded delightedly.

"Good!" he said. "Rare idea! I should never have thought of it! And—what do you make out of that, now?"

"Nothing," replied Jettison. "But—a good deal out of what I've learned since that bit of a discovery. Now, put it to yourself—whoever it was that paid Collishaw that fifty pounds in gold did it with a motive. More than one motive, to be exact—but we'll stick to one, to begin with. The motive for paying in gold was—avoidance of discovery. A cheque can be readily traced. So can banknotes. But gold is not easily traced. Therefore the man who paid Collishaw fifty pounds took care to provide himself with gold. Now then—how many men are there in a small place like this who are likely to carry fifty pounds in gold in their pockets, or to have it at hand?"

"Not many," agreed Mitchington.

"Just so—and therefore I've been doing a bit of secret inquiry amongst the bankers, as to who supplied himself with gold about that date," continued Jettison. "I'd to convince 'em of the absolute necessity of information, too, before I got any! But I got some—at the third attempt. On the day previous to that on which Collishaw handed that fifty pounds to Stebbing, a certain Wrychester man drew fifty pounds in gold at his bank. Who do you think he was?"

"Who—who?" demanded Mitchington.

Jettison leaned half-across the desk.

"Bryce!" he said in a whisper. "Bryce!"

Mitchington sat up in his chair and opened his mouth in sheer astonishment.

"Good heavens!" he muttered after a moment's silence. "You don't mean it?"

"Fact!" answered Jettison. "Plain, incontestable fact, my lad. Dr. Bryce keeps an account at the Wrychester bank. On the day I'm speaking of he cashed a cheque to self for fifty pounds and took it all in gold."

The two men looked at each other as if each were asking his companion a question.

"Well?" said Mitchington at last. "You're a cut above me, Jettison. What do you make of it?"

"I said last night that the young man was playing a deep game," replied Jettison. "But—what game? What's he building up? For mark you, Mitchington, if—I say if, mind!—if that fifty pounds which he drew in gold is the identical fifty paid to Collishaw, Bryce didn't pay it as hush-money!"

"Think not?" said Mitchington, evidently surprised. "Now, that was my first impression. If it wasn't hush-money—"

"It wasn't hush-money, for this reason," interrupted Jettison. "We know that whatever else he knew, Bryce didn't know of the accident to Braden until Varner fetched him to Braden. That's established—on what you've put before me. Therefore, whatever Collishaw saw, before or at the time that accident happened, it wasn't Bryce who was mixed up in it. Therefore, why should Bryce pay Collishaw hush-money?"

Mitchington, who had evidently been thinking, suddenly pulled out a drawer in his desk and took some papers from it which he began to turn over.

"Wait a minute," he said. "I've an abstract here—of what the foreman at the Cathedral mason's yard told me of what he knew as to where Collishaw was working that morning when the accident happened—I made a note of it when I questioned him after Collishaw's death. Here you are:

'Foreman says that on morning of Braden's accident, Collishaw was at work in the north gallery of the clerestory, clearing away some timber which the carpenters had left there. Collishaw was certainly thus engaged from nine o'clock until past eleven that morning. Mem. Have investigated this myself. From the exact spot where C. was clearing the timber, there is an uninterrupted view of the gallery on the south side of the nave, and of the arched doorway at the head of St. Wrytha's Stair.'"

"'Well," observed Jettison, "that proves what I'm saying. It wasn't hush-money. For whoever it was that Collishaw saw lay hands on Braden, it wasn't Bryce—Bryce, we know, was at that time coming across the Close or crossing that path through the part you call Paradise: Varner's evidence proves that. So—if the fifty pounds wasn't paid for hush-money, what was it paid for?"

"Do you suggest anything?" asked Mitchington.

"I've thought of two or three things," answered the detective. "One's this—was the fifty pounds paid for information? If so, and Bryce has that information, why doesn't he show his hand more plainly? If he bribed Collishaw with fifty pounds: to tell him who Braden's assailant was, he now knows!—so why doesn't he let it out, and have done with it?"

"Part of his game—if that theory's right," murmured Mitchington.

"It mayn't be right," said Jettison. "But it's one. And there's another—supposing he paid Collishaw that money on behalf of somebody else? I've thought this business out right and left, top-side and bottom-side, and hang me if I don't feel certain there is somebody else! What did Ransford tell us about Bryce and this old Harker—think of that! And yet, according to Bryce, Harker is one of our old Yard men!—and therefore ought to be above suspicion."

Mitchington suddenly started as if an idea had occurred to him.

"I say, you know!" he exclaimed. "We've only Bryce's word for it that Harker is an ex-detective. I never heard that he was—if he is, he's kept it strangely quiet. You'd have thought that he'd have let us know, here, of his previous calling—I never heard of a policeman of any rank who didn't like to have a bit of talk with his own sort about professional matters."

"Nor me," assented Jettison. "And as you say, we've only Bryce's word. And, the more I think of it, the more I'm convinced there's somebody—some man of whom you don't seem to have the least idea—who's in this. And it may be that Bryce is in with him. However—here's one thing I'm going to do at once. Bryce gave us that information about the fifty pounds. Now I'm going to tell Bryce straight out that I've gone into that matter in my own fashion—a fashion he evidently never thought of—and ask him to explain why he drew a similar amount in gold. Come on round to his rooms."

But Bryce was not to be found at his rooms—had not been back to his rooms, said his landlady, since he had ridden away early in the morning: all she knew was that he had ordered his dinner to be ready at his usual time that evening. With that the two men had to be content, and they went back to the police-station still discussing the situation. And they were still discussing it an hour later when a telegram was handed to Mitchington, who tore it open, glanced over its contents and passed it to his companion who read it aloud.

"Meet me with Jettison Wrychester Station on arrival of five-twenty express from London mystery cleared up guilty men known—Ransford."

Jettison handed the telegram back.

"A man of his word!" he said. "He mentioned two days—he's done it in one! And now, my lad—do you notice?—he says men, not man! It's as I said—there's been more than one of 'em in this affair. Now then—who are they?"



CHAPTER XXI. THE SAXONSTEADE ARMS

Bryce had ridden away on his bicycle from Wrychester that morning intent on a new piece of diplomacy. He had sat up thinking for some time after the two police officials had left him at midnight, and it had occurred to him that there was a man from whom information could be had of whose services he had as yet made no use but who must be somewhere in the neighbourhood—the man Glassdale. Glassdale had been in Wrychester the previous evening; he could scarcely be far away now; there was certainly one person who would know where he could be found, and that person was the Duke of Saxonsteade. Bryce knew the Duke to be an extremely approachable man, a talkative, even a garrulous man, given to holding converse with anybody about anything, and he speedily made up his mind to ride over to Saxonsteade, invent a plausible excuse for his call, and get some news out of his Grace. Even if Glassdale had left the neighbourhood, there might be fragments of evidence to pick up from the Duke, for Glassdale, he knew, had given his former employer the information about the stolen jewels and would, no doubt, have added more about his acquaintance with Braden. And before Bryce came to his dreamed-of master-stroke in that matter, there were one or two things he wanted to clear up, to complete his double net, and he had an idea that an hour's chat with Glassdale would yield all that he desired.

The active brain that had stood Bryce in good stead while he spun his meshes and devised his schemes was more active than ever that early summer morning. It was a ten-mile ride through woods and valleys to Saxonsteade, and there were sights and beauties of nature on either side of him which any other man would have lingered to admire and most men would have been influenced by. But Bryce had no eyes for the clouds over the copper-crowned hills or the mystic shadows in the deep valleys or the new buds in the hedgerows, and no thought for the rustic folk whose cottages he passed here and there in a sparsely populated country. All his thoughts were fixed on his schemes, almost as mechanically as his eyes followed the white road in front of his wheel. Ever since he had set out on his campaign he had regularly taken stock of his position; he was for ever reckoning it up. And now, in his opinion, everything looked very promising. He had—so far as he was aware—created a definite atmosphere of suspicion around and against Ransford—it needed only a little more suggestion, perhaps a little more evidence to bring about Ransford's arrest. And the only question which at all troubled Bryce was—should he let matters go to that length before putting his ultimatum before Mary Bewery, or should he show her his hand first? For Bryce had so worked matters that a word from him to the police would damn Ransford or save him—and now it all depended, so far as Bryce himself was concerned, on Mary Bewery as to which word should be said. Elaborate as the toils were which he had laid out for Ransford to the police, he could sweep them up and tear them away with a sentence of added knowledge—if Mary Bewery made it worth his while. But first—before coming to the critical point—there was yet certain information which he desired to get, and he felt sure of getting it if he could find Glassdale. For Glassdale, according to all accounts, had known Braden intimately of late years, and was most likely in possession of facts about him—and Bryce had full confidence in himself as an interviewer of other men and a supreme belief that he could wheedle a secret out of anybody with whom he could procure an hour's quiet conversation.

As luck would have it, Bryce had no need to make a call upon the approachable and friendly Duke. Outside the little village at Saxonsteade, on the edge of the deep woods which fringed the ducal park, stood an old wayside inn, a relic of the coaching days, which bore on its sign the ducal arms. Into its old stone hall marched Bryce to refresh himself after his ride, and as he stood at the bow-windowed bar, he glanced into the garden beyond and there saw, comfortably smoking his pipe and reading the newspaper, the very man he was looking for.

Bryce had no spice of bashfulness, no want of confidence anywhere in his nature; he determined to attack Glassdale there and then. But he took a good look at his man before going out into the garden to him. A plain and ordinary sort of fellow, he thought; rather over middle age, with a tinge of grey in his hair and moustache; prosperous looking and well-dressed, and at that moment of the appearance of what he was probably taken for by the inn people—a tourist. Whether he was the sort who would be communicative or not, Bryce could not tell from outward signs, but he was going to try, and he presently found his card-case, took out a card, and strolling down the garden to the shady spot in which Glassdale sat, assumed his politest and suavest manner and presented himself.

"Allow me, sir," he said, carefully abstaining from any mention of names. "May I have the pleasure of a few minutes' conversation with you?"

Glassdale cast a swift glance of surprise, not unmingled with suspicion, at the intruder—the sort of glance that a man used to watchfulness would throw at anybody, thought Bryce. But his face cleared as he read the card, though it was still doubtful as he lifted it again.

"You've the advantage of me, sir," he said. "Dr. Bryce, I see. But—"

Bryce smiled and dropped into a garden chair at Glassdale's side.

"You needn't be afraid of talking to me," he answered. "I'm well known in Wrychester. The Duke," he went on, nodding his head in the direction of the great house which lay behind the woods at the foot of the garden, "knows me well enough—in fact, I was on my way to see his Grace now, to ask him if he could tell me where you could be found. The fact is, I'm aware of what happened last night—the jewel affair, you know—Mitchington told me—and of your friendship with Braden, and I want to ask you a question or two about Braden."

Glassdale, who had looked somewhat mystified at the beginning of this address, seemed to understand matters better by the end of it.

"Oh, well, of course, doctor," he said, "if that's it—but, of course—a word first!—these folk here at the inn don't know who I am or that I've any connection with the Duke on that affair. I'm Mr. Gordon here—just staying for a bit."

"That's all right," answered Bryce with a smile of understanding. "All this is between ourselves. I saw you with the Duke and the rest of them last night, and I recognized you just now. And all I want is a bit of talk about Braden. You knew him pretty well of late years?"

"Knew him for a good many years," replied Glassdale. He looked narrowly at his visitor. "I suppose you know his story—and mine?" he asked. "Bygone affairs, eh?"

"Yes, yes!" answered Bryce reassuringly. "No need to go into that—that's all done with."

"Aye—well, we both put things right," said Glassdale. "Made restitution—both of us, you understand. So that is done with? And you know, then, of course, who Braden really was?"

"John Brake, ex bank-manager," answered Bryce promptly. "I know all about it. I've been deeply interested and concerned in his death. And I'll tell you why. I want to marry his daughter."

Glassdale turned and stared at his companion.

"His daughter!" he exclaimed. "Brake's daughter! God bless my soul! I never knew he had a daughter!"

It was Bryce's turn to stare now. He looked at Glassdale incredulously.

"Do you mean to tell me that you knew Brake all those years and that he never mentioned his children?" he exclaimed.

"Never a word of 'em!" replied Glassdale. "Never knew he had any!"

"Did he never speak of his past?" asked Bryce.

"Not in that respect," answered Glassdale. "I'd no idea that he was—or had been—a married man. He certainly never mentioned wife nor children to me, sir, and yet I knew Brake about as intimately as two men can know each other for some years before we came back to England."

Bryce fell into one of his fits of musing. What could be the meaning of this extraordinary silence on Brake's part? Was there still some hidden secret, some other mystery at which he had not yet guessed?

"Odd!" he remarked at last after a long pause during which Glassdale had watched him curiously. "But, did he ever speak to you of an old friend of his named Ransford—a doctor?"

"Never!" said Glassdale. "Never mentioned such a man!"

Bryce reflected again, and suddenly determined to be explicit.

"John Brake, the bank manager," he said, "was married at a place called Braden Medworth, in Leicestershire, to a girl named Mary Bewery. He had two children, who would be, respectively, about four and one years of age when his—we'll call it misfortune—happened. That's a fact!"

"First I ever heard of it, then," said Glassdale. "And that's a fact, too!"

"He'd also a very close friend named Ransford—Mark Ransford," continued Bryce. "This Ransford was best man at Brake's wedding."

"Never heard him speak of Ransford, nor of any wedding!" affirmed Glassdale. "All news to me, doctor."

"This Ransford is now in practice in Wrychester," said Bryce. "And he has two young people living with him as his wards—a girl of twenty, a boy of seventeen—who are, without doubt, John Brake's children. It is the daughter that I want to marry."

Glassdale shook his head as if in sheer perplexity.

"Well, all I can say is, you surprise me!" he remarked. "I'd no idea of any such thing."

"Do you think Brake came to Wrychester because of that?" asked Bryce.

"How can I answer that, sir, when I tell you that I never heard him breathe one word of any children?" exclaimed Glassdale. "No! I know his reason for coming to Wrychester. It was wholly and solely—as far as I know—to tell the Duke here about that jewel business, the secret of which had been entrusted to Brake and me by a man on his death-bed in Australia. Brake came to Wrychester by himself—I was to join him next morning: we were then to go to see the Duke together. When I got to Wrychester, I heard of Brake's accident, and being upset by it, I went away again and waited some days until yesterday, when I made up my mind to tell the Duke myself, as I did, with very fortunate results. No, that's the only reason I know of why Brake came this way. I tell you I knew nothing at all of his family affairs! He was a very close man, Brake, and apart from his business matters, he'd only one idea in his head, and that was lodged there pretty firmly, I can assure you!"

"What was it?" asked Bryce.

"He wanted to find a certain man—or, rather, two men—who'd cruelly deceived and wronged him, but one of 'em in particular," answered Glassdale. "The particular one he believed to be in Australia, until near the end, when he got an idea that he'd left for England; as for the other, he didn't bother much about him. But the man that he did want!—ah, he wanted him badly!"

"Who was that man?" asked Bryce.

"A man of the name of Falkiner Wraye," answered Glassdale promptly. "A man he'd known in London. This Wraye, together with his partner, a man called Flood, tricked Brake into lending 'em several thousands pounds—bank's money, of course—for a couple of days—no more—and then clean disappeared, leaving him to pay the piper! He was a fool, no doubt, but he'd been mixed up with them; he'd done it before, and they'd always kept their promises, and he did it once too often. He let 'em have some thousands; they disappeared, and the bank inspector happened to call at Brake's bank and ask for his balances. And—there he was. And—that's why he'd Falkiner Wraye on his mind—as his one big idea. T'other man was a lesser consideration, Wraye was the chief offender."

"I wish you'd tell me all you know about Brake," said Bryce after a pause during which he had done some thinking. "Between ourselves, of course."

"Oh—I don't know that there's so much secrecy!" replied Glassdale almost indifferently. "Of course, I knew him first when we were both inmates of—you understand where; no need for particulars. But after we left that place, I never saw him again until we met in Australia a few years ago. We were both in the same trade—speculating in wool. We got pretty thick and used to see each other a great deal, and of course, grew confidential. He told me in time about his affair, and how he'd traced this Wraye to the United States, and then, I think, to New Zealand, and afterwards to Australia, and as I was knocking about the country a great deal buying up wool, he asked me to help him, and gave me a description of Wraye, of whom, he said, he'd certainly heard something when he first landed at Sydney, but had never been able to trace afterwards. But it was no good—I never either saw or heard of Wraye—and Brake came to the conclusion he'd left Australia. And I know he hoped to get news of him, somehow, when we returned to England."

"That description, now?—what was it?" asked Bryce.

"Oh!" said Glassdale. "I can't remember it all, now—big man, clean shaven, nothing very particular except one thing. Wraye, according to Brake, had a bad scar on his left jaw and had lost the middle finger of his left hand—all from a gun accident. He—what's the matter, sir?"

Bryce had suddenly let his pipe fall from his lips. He took some time in picking it up. When he raised himself again his face was calm if a little flushed from stooping.

"Bit my pipe on a bad tooth!" he muttered. "I must have that tooth seen to. So you never heard or saw anything of this man?"

"Never!" answered Glassdale. "But I've wondered since this Wrychester affair if Brake accidentally came across one or other of those men, and if his death arose out of it. Now, look here, doctor! I read the accounts of the inquest on Brake—I'd have gone to it if I'd dared, but just then I hadn't made up my mind about seeing the Duke; I didn't know what to do, so I kept away, and there's a thing has struck me that I don't believe the police have ever taken the slightest, notice of."

"What's that?" demanded Bryce.

"Why, this!" answered Glassdale. "That man who called himself Dellingham—who came with Brake to the Mitre Hotel at Wrychester—who is he? Where did Brake meet him? Where did he go? Seems to me the police have been strangely negligent about that! According to the accounts I've read, everybody just accepted this Dellingham's first statement, took his word, and let him—vanish! No one, as far as I know, ever verified his account of himself. A stranger!"

Bryce, who was already in one of his deep moods of reflection, got up from his chair as if to go.

"Yes," he said. "There maybe something in your suggestion. They certainly did take his word without inquiry. It's true—he mightn't be what he said he was."

"Aye, and from what I read, they never followed his movements that morning!" observed Glassdale. "Queer business altogether! Isn't there some reward offered, doctor? I heard of some placards or something, but I've never seen them; of course, I've only been here since yesterday morning."

Bryce silently drew some papers from his pocket. From them he extracted the two handbills which Mitchington had given him and handed them over.

"Well, I must go," he said. "I shall no doubt see you again in Wrychester, over this affair. For the present, all this is between ourselves, of course?"

"Oh, of course, doctor!" answered Glassdale. "Quite so!" Bryce went off and got his bicycle and rode away in the direction of Wrychester. Had he remained in that garden he would have seen Glassdale, after reading both the handbills, go into the house and have heard him ask the landlady at the bar to get him a trap and a good horse in it as soon as possible; he, too, now wanted to go to Wrychester and at once. But Bryce was riding down the road, muttering certain words to himself over and over again.

"The left jaw—and the left hand!" he repeated. "Left hand—left jaw! Unmistakable!"



CHAPTER XXII. OTHER PEOPLE'S NOTIONS

The great towers of Wrychester Cathedral had come within Bryce's view before he had made up his mind as to the next step in this last stage of his campaign. He had ridden away from the Saxonsteade Arms feeling that he had got to do something at once, but he was not quite clear in his mind as to what that something exactly was. But now, as he topped a rise in the road, and saw Wrychester lying in its hollow beneath him, the summer sun shining on its red roofs and grey walls, he suddenly came to a decision, and instead of riding straight ahead into the old city he turned off at a by-road, made a line across the northern outskirts, and headed for the golf-links. He was almost certain to find Mary Bewery there at that hour, and he wanted to see her at once. The time for his great stroke had come.

But Mary Bewery was not there—had not been there that morning said the caddy-master. There were only a few players out. In one of them, coming towards the club-house, Bryce recognized Sackville Bonham. And at sight of Sackville, Bryce had an inspiration. Mary Bewery would not come up to the links now before afternoon; he, Bryce, would lunch there and then go towards Wrychester to meet her by the path across the fields on which he had waylaid her after his visit to Leicestershire. And meanwhile he would inveigle Sackville Bonham into conversation. Sackville fell readily into Bryce's trap. He was the sort of youth who loves to talk, especially in a hinting and mysterious fashion. And when Bryce, after treating him to an appetizer in the bar of the club-house, had suggested that they should lunch together and got him into a quiet corner of the dining-room, he launched forth at once on the pertinent matter of the day.

"Heard all about this discovery of those missing Saxonsteade diamonds?" he asked as he and Bryce picked up their knives and forks. "Queer business that, isn't it? Of course, it's got to do with those murders!"

"Think so?" asked Bryce.

"Can anybody think anything else?" said Sackville in his best dogmatic manner. "Why, the thing's plain. From what's been let out—not much, certainly, but enough—it's quite evident."

"What's your theory?" inquired Bryce.

"My stepfather—knowing old bird he is, too!—sums the whole thing up to a nicety," answered Sackville. "That old chap, Braden, you know, is in possession of that secret. He comes to Wrychester about it. But somebody else knows. That somebody gets rid of Braden. Why? So that the secret'll be known then only to one—the murderer! See! And why? Why?"

"Well, why?" repeated Bryce. "Don't see, so far."

"You must be dense, then," said Sackville with the lofty superiority of youth. "Because of the reward, of course! Don't you know that there's been a standing offer—never withdrawn!—of five thousand pounds for news of those jewels?"

"No, I didn't," answered Bryce.

"Fact, sir—pure fact," continued Sackville. "Now, five thousand, divided in two, is two thousand five hundred each. But five thousand, undivided, is—what?"

"Five thousand—apparently," said Bryce.

"Just so! And," remarked Sackville knowingly, "a man'll do a lot for five thousand."

"Or—according to your argument—for half of it," said Bryce. "What you—or your stepfather's—aiming at comes to this, that suspicion rests on Braden's sharer in the secret. That it?"

"And why not?" asked Sackville. "Look at what we know—from the account in the paper this morning. This other chap, Glassdale, waits a bit until the first excitement about Braden is over, then he comes forward and tells the Duke where the Duchess's diamonds are planted. Why? So that he can get the five thousand pound reward! Plain as a pikestaff! Only, the police are such fools."

"And what about Collishaw?" asked Bryce, willing to absorb all his companion's ideas.

"Part of the game," declared Sackville. "Same man that got rid of Braden got rid of that chap! Probably Collishaw knew a bit and had to be silenced. But, whether that Glassdale did it all off his own bat or whether he's somebody in with him, that's where the guilt'll be fastened in the end, my stepfather says. And—it'll be so. Stands to reason!"

"Anybody come forward about that reward your stepfather offered?" asked Bryce.

"I'm not permitted to say," answered Sackville. "But," he added, leaning closer to his companion across the table, "I can tell you this—there's wheels within wheels! You understand! And things'll be coming out. Got to! We can't—as a family—let Ransford lie under that cloud, don't you know. We must clear him. That's precisely why Mr. Folliot offered his reward. Ransford, of course, you know, Bryce, is very much to blame—he ought to have done more himself. And, of course, as my mother and my stepfather say, if Ransford won't do things for himself, well, we must do 'em for him! We couldn't think of anything else."

"Very good of you all, I'm sure," assented Bryce. "Very thoughtful and kindly."

"Oh, well!" said Sackville, who was incapable of perceiving a sneer or of knowing when older men were laughing at him. "It's one of those things that one's got to do—under the circumstances. Of course, Miss Bewery isn't Dr. Ransford's daughter, but she's his ward, and we can't allow suspicion to rest on her guardian. You leave it to me, my boy, and you'll see how things will be cleared!"

"Doing a bit underground, eh?" asked Bryce.

"Wait a bit!" answered Sackville with a knowing wink. "It's the least expected that happens—what?"

Bryce replied that Sackville was no doubt right, and began to talk of other matters. He hung about the club-house until past three o'clock, and then, being well acquainted with Mary Bewery's movements from long observation of them, set out to walk down towards Wrychester, leaving his bicycle behind him. If he did not meet Mary on the way, he meant to go to the house. Ransford would be out on his afternoon round of calls; Dick Bewery would be at school; he would find Mary alone. And it was necessary that he should see her alone, and at once, for since morning an entirely new view of affairs had come to him, based on added knowledge, and he now saw a chance which he had never seen before. True, he said to himself, as he walked across the links and over the country which lay between their edge and Wrychester, he had not, even now, the accurate knowledge as to the actual murderer of either Braden or Collishaw that he would have liked, but he knew something that would enable him to ask Mary Bewery point-blank whether he was to be friend or enemy. And he was still considering the best way of putting his case to her when, having failed to meet her on the way, he at last turned into the Close, and as he approached Ransford's house, saw Mrs. Folliot leaving it.

Mary Bewery, like Bryce, had been having a day of events. To begin with, Ransford had received a wire from London, first thing in the morning, which had made him run, breakfastless, to catch the next express. He had left Mary to make arrangements about his day's work, for he had not yet replaced Bryce, and she had been obliged to seek out another practitioner who could find time from his own duties to attend to Ransford's urgent patients. Then she had had to see callers who came to the surgery expecting to find Ransford there; and in the middle of a busy morning, Mr. Folliot had dropped in, to bring her a bunch of roses, and, once admitted, had shown unmistakable signs of a desire to gossip.

"Ransford out?" he asked as he sat down in the dining-room. "Suppose he is, this time of day."

"He's away," replied Mary. "He went to town by the first express, and I have had a lot of bother arranging about his patients."

"Did he hear about this discovery of the Saxonsteade jewels before he went?" asked Folliot. "Suppose he wouldn't though—wasn't known until the weekly paper came out this morning. Queer business! You've heard, of course?"

"Dr. Short told me," answered Mary. "I don't know any details."

Folliot looked meditatively at her a moment.

"Got something to do with those other matters, you know," he remarked. "I say! What's Ransford doing about all that?"

"About all what, Mr. Folliot?" asked Mary, at once on her guard. "I don't understand you."

"You know—all that suspicion—and so on," said Folliot. "Bad position for a professional man, you know—ought to clear himself. Anybody been applying for that reward Ransford offered?"

"I don't know anything about it," replied Mary. "Dr. Ransford is very well able to take care of himself, I think. Has anybody applied for yours?"

Folliot rose from his chair again, as if he had changed his mind about lingering, and shook his head.

"Can't say what my solicitors may or may not have heard—or done," he answered. "But—queer business, you know—and ought to be settled. Bad for Ransford to have any sort of a cloud over him. Sorry to see it."

"Is that why you came forward with a reward?" asked Mary.

But to this direct question Folliot made no answer. He muttered something about the advisability of somebody doing something and went away, to Mary's relief. She had no desire to discuss the Paradise mysteries with anybody, especially after Ransford's assurance of the previous evening. But in the middle of the afternoon in walked Mrs. Folliot, a rare caller, and before she had been closeted with Mary five minutes brought up the subject again.

"I want to speak to you on a very serious matter, my dear Miss Bewery," she said. "You must allow me to speak plainly on account of—of several things. My—my superiority in—in age, you know, and all that!"

"What's the matter, Mrs. Folliot?" asked Mary, steeling herself against what she felt sure was coming. "Is it—very serious? And—pardon me—is it about what Mr. Folliot mentioned to me this morning? Because if it is, I'm not going to discuss that with you or with anybody!"

"I had no idea that my husband had been here this morning," answered Mrs. Folliot in genuine surprise. "What did he want to talk about?"

"In that case, what do you want to talk about?" asked Mary. "Though that doesn't mean that I'm going to talk about it with you."

Mrs. Folliot made an effort to understand this remark, and after inspecting her hostess critically for a moment, proceeded in her most judicial manner.

"You must see, my dear Miss Bewery, that it is highly necessary that some one should use the utmost persuasion on Dr. Ransford," she said. "He is placing all of you—himself, yourself, your young brother—in most invidious positions by his silence! In society such as—well, such as you get in a cathedral town, you know, no man of reputation can afford to keep silence when his—his character is affected."

Mary picked up some needlework and began to be much occupied with it.

"Is Dr. Ransford's character affected?" she asked. "I wasn't aware of it, Mrs. Folliot."

"Oh, my dear, you can't be quite so very—so very, shall we say ingenuous?—as all that!" exclaimed Mrs. Folliot. "These rumours!—of course, they are very wicked and cruel ones, but you know they have spread. Dear me!—why, they have been common talk!"

"I don't think my guardian cares twopence for common talk, Mrs. Folliot," answered Mary. "And I am quite sure I don't."

"None of us—especially people in our position—can afford to ignore rumours and common talk," said Mrs. Folliot in her loftiest manner. "If we are, unfortunately, talked about, then it is our solemn, bounden duty to put ourselves right in the eyes of our friends—and of society. If I for instance, my dear, heard anything affecting my—let me say, moral-character, I should take steps, the most stringent, drastic, and forceful steps, to put matters to the test. I would not remain under a stigma—no, not for one minute!"

"I hope you will never have occasion to rehabilitate your moral character, Mrs. Folliot," remarked Mary, bending closely over her work. "Such a necessity would indeed be dreadful."

"And yet you do not insist—yes, insist!—on Dr. Ransford's taking strong steps to clear himself!" exclaimed Mrs. Folliot. "Now that, indeed, is a dreadful necessity!"

"Dr. Ransford," answered Mary, "is quite able to defend and to take care of himself. It is not for me to tell him what to do, or even to advise him what to do. And—since you will talk of this matter, I tell you frankly, Mrs. Folliot, that I don't believe any decent person in Wrychester has the least suspicion or doubt of Dr. Ransford. His denial of any share or complicity in those sad affairs—the mere idea of it as ridiculous as it's wicked—was quite sufficient. You know very well that at that second inquest he said—on oath, too—that he knew nothing of these affairs. I repeat, there isn't a decent soul in the city doubts that!"

"Oh, but you're quite wrong!" said Mrs. Folliot, hurriedly. "Quite wrong, I assure you, my dear. Of course, everybody knows what Dr. Ransford said—very excitedly, poor man, I'm given to understand on the occasion you refer to, but then, what else could he have said in his own interest? What people want is the proof of his innocence. I could—but I won't—tell you of many of the very best people who are—well, very much exercised over the matter—I could indeed!"

"Do you count yourself among them?" asked Mary in a cold fashion which would have been a warning to any one but her visitor. "Am I to understand that, Mrs. Folliot?"

"Certainly not, my dear," answered Mrs. Folliot promptly. "Otherwise I should not have done what I have done towards establishing the foolish man's innocence!"

Mary dropped her work and turned a pair of astonished eyes on Mrs. Folliot's large countenance.

"You!" she exclaimed. "To establish—Dr. Ransford's innocence? Why, Mrs. Folliot, what have you done?"

Mrs. Folliot toyed a little with the jewelled head of her sunshade. Her expression became almost coy.

"Oh, well!" she answered after a brief spell of indecision. "Perhaps it is as well that you should know, Miss Bewery. Of course, when all this sad trouble was made far worse by that second affair—the working-man's death, you know, I said to my husband that really one must do something, seeing that Dr. Ransford was so very, very obdurate and wouldn't speak. And as money is nothing—at least as things go—to me or to Mr. Folliot, I insisted that he should offer a thousand pounds reward to have the thing cleared up. He's a generous and open-handed man, and he agreed with me entirely, and put the thing in hand through his solicitors. And nothing would please us more, my dear, than to have that thousand pounds claimed! For of course, if there is to be—as I suppose there is—a union between our families, it would be utterly impossible that any cloud could rest on Dr. Ransford, even if he is only your guardian. My son's future wife cannot, of course—"

Mary laid down her work again and for a full minute stared Mrs. Folliot in the face.

"Mrs. Folliot!" she said at last. "Are you under the impression that I'm thinking of marrying your son?"

"I think I've every good reason for believing it!" replied Mrs. Folliot.

"You've none!" retorted Mary, gathering up her work and moving towards the door. "I've no more intention of marrying Mr. Sackville Bonham than of eloping with the Bishop! The idea's too absurd to—even be thought of!"

Five minutes later Mrs. Folliot, heightened in colour, had gone. And presently Mary, glancing after her across the Close, saw Bryce approaching the gate of the garden.



CHAPTER XXIII. THE UNEXPECTED

Mary's first instinct on seeing the approach of Pemberton Bryce, the one man she least desired to see, was to retreat to the back of the house and send the parlourmaid to the door to say her mistress was not at home. But she had lately become aware of Bryce's curiously dogged persistence in following up whatever he had in view, and she reflected that if he were sent away then he would be sure to come back and come back until he had got whatever it was that he wanted. And after a moment's further consideration, she walked out of the front door and confronted him resolutely in the garden.

"Dr. Ransford is away," she said with almost unnecessary brusqueness. "He's away until evening."

"I don't want him," replied Bryce just as brusquely. "I came to see you."

Mary hesitated. She continued to regard Bryce steadily, and Bryce did not like the way in which she was looking at him. He made haste to speak before she could either leave or dismiss him.

"You'd better give me a few minutes," he said, with a note of warning. "I'm here in your interests—or in Ransford's. I may as well tell you, straight out, Ransford's in serious and imminent danger! That's a fact."

"Danger of what?" she demanded.

"Arrest—instant arrest!" replied Bryce. "I'm telling you the truth. He'll probably be arrested tonight, on his return. There's no imagination in all this—I'm speaking of what I know. I've—curiously enough—got mixed up with these affairs, through no seeking of my own, and I know what's behind the scenes. If it were known that I'm letting out secrets to you, I should get into trouble. But, I want to warn you!"

Mary stood before him on the path, hesitating. She knew enough to know that Bryce was telling some sort of truth: it was plain that he had been mixed up in the recent mysteries, and there was a ring of conviction in his voice which impressed her. And suddenly she had visions of Ransford's arrest, of his being dragged off to prison to meet a cruel accusation, of the shame and disgrace, and she hesitated further.

"But if that's so," she said at last, "what's the good of coming to me? I can't do anything!"

"I can!" said Bryce significantly. "I know more—much more—than the police know—more than anybody knows. I can save Ransford. Understand that!"

"What do you want now?" she asked.

"To talk to you—to tell you how things are," answered Bryce. "What harm is there in that? To make you see how matters stand, and then to show you what I can do to put things right."

Mary glanced at an open summer-house which stood beneath the beech trees on one side of the garden. She moved towards it and sat down there, and Bryce followed her and seated himself.

"Well—" she said.

Bryce realized that his moment had arrived. He paused, endeavouring to remember the careful preparations he had made for putting his case. Somehow, he was not so clear as to his line of attack as he had been ten minutes previously—he realized that he had to deal with a young woman who was not likely to be taken in nor easily deceived. And suddenly he plunged into what he felt to be the thick of things.

"Whether you, or whether Ransford—whether both or either of you, know it or not," he said, "the police have been on to Ransford ever since that Collishaw affair! Underground work, you know. Mitchington has been digging into things ever since then, and lately he's had a London detective helping him."

Mary, who had carried her work into the garden, had now resumed it, and as Bryce began to talk she bent over it steadily stitching.

"Well?" she said.

"Look here!" continued Bryce. "Has it never struck you—it must have done!—that there's considerable mystery about Ransford? But whether it has struck you or not, it's there, and it's struck the police forcibly. Mystery connected with him before—long before—he ever came here. And associated, in some way, with that man Braden. Not of late—in years past. And, naturally, the police have tried to find out what that was."

"What have they found out?" asked Mary quietly.

"That I'm not at liberty to tell," replied Bryce. "But I can tell you this—they know, Mitchington and the London man, that there were passages between Ransford and Braden years ago."

"How many years ago?" interrupted Mary.

Bryce hesitated a moment. He had a suspicion that this self-possessed young woman who was taking everything more quietly than he had anticipated, might possibly know more than he gave her credit for knowing. He had been watching her fingers since they sat down in the summer-house, and his sharp eyes saw that they were as steady as the spire of the cathedral above the trees—he knew from that that she was neither frightened nor anxious.

"Oh, well—seventeen to twenty years ago," he answered. "About that time. There were passages, I say, and they were of a nature which suggests that the re-appearance of Braden on Ransford's present stage of life would be, extremely unpleasant and unwelcome to Ransford."

"Vague!" murmured Mary. "Extremely vague!"

"But quite enough," retorted Bryce, "to give the police the suggestion of motive. I tell you the police know quite enough to know that Braden was, of all men in the world, the last man Ransford desired to see cross his path again. And—on that morning on which the Paradise affair occurred—Braden did cross his path. Therefore, in the conventional police way of thinking and looking at things, there's motive."

"Motive for what?" asked Mary.

Bryce arrived here at one of his critical stages, and he paused a moment in order to choose his words.

"Don't get any false ideas or impressions," he said at last. "I'm not accusing Ransford of anything. I'm only telling you what I know the police think and are on the very edge of accusing him of. To put it plainly—of murder. They say he'd a motive for murdering Braden—and with them motive is everything. It's the first thing they seem to think of; they first question they ask themselves. 'Why should this man have murdered that man?'—do you see! 'What motive had he?—that's the point. And they think—these chaps like Mitchington and the London man—that Ransford certainly had a motive for getting rid of Braden when they met."

"What was the motive?" asked Mary.

"They've found out something—perhaps a good deal—about what happened between Braden and Ransford some years ago," replied Bryce. "And their theory is—if you want to know the truth—that Ransford ran away with Braden's wife, and that Braden had been looking for him ever since."

Bryce had kept his eyes on Mary's hands, and now at last he saw the girl's fingers tremble. But her voice was steady enough when she spoke.

"Is that mere conjecture on their part, or is it based on any fact?" she asked.

"I'm not in full knowledge of all their secrets," answered Bryce, "but I've heard enough to know that there's a basis of undeniable fact on which they're going. I know for instance, beyond doubt, that Braden and Ransford were bosom friends, years ago, that Braden was married to a girl whom Ransford had wanted to marry, that Braden's wife suddenly left him, mysteriously, a few years later, and that, at the same time, Ransford made an equally mysterious disappearance. The police know all that. What is the inference to be drawn? What inference would any one—you yourself, for example—draw?"