* * *

By J. S. Fletcher

Bryce went back to Wrychester firmly convinced that Mark Ransford had killed John Braden. He reckoned things up in his own fashion. Some years must have elapsed since Braden, or rather Brake's release. He had probably heard, on his release, that Ransford and his, Brake's, wife had gone abroad—in that case he would certainly follow them. He might have lost all trace of them; he might have lost his original interest in his first schemes of revenge; he might have begun a new life for himself in Australia, whence he had undoubtedly come to England recently. But he had come, at last, and he had evidently tracked Ransford to Wrychester—why, otherwise, had he presented himself at Ransford's door on that eventful morning which was to witness his death? Nothing, in Bryce's opinion, could be clearer. Brake had turned up. He and Ransford had met—most likely in the precincts of the Cathedral. Ransford, who knew all the quiet corners of the old place, had in all probability induced Brake to walk up into the gallery with him, had noticed the open doorway, had thrown Brake through it. All the facts pointed to that conclusion—it was a theory which, so far as Bryce could see, was perfect. It ought to be enough—proved—to put Ransford in a criminal dock. Bryce resolved it in his own mind over and over again as he sped home to Wrychester—he pictured the police listening greedily to all that he could tell them if he liked. There was only one factor in the whole sum of the affair which seemed against him—the advertisement in the Times. If Brake desired to find Ransford in order to be revenged on him, why did he insert that advertisement, as if he were longing to meet a cherished friend again? But Bryce gaily surmounted that obstacle—full of shifts and subtleties himself, he was ever ready to credit others with trading in them, and he put the advertisement down as a clever ruse to attract, not Ransford, but some person who could give information about Ransford. Whatever its exact meaning might have been, its existence made no difference to Bryce's firm opinion that it was Mark Ransford who flung John Brake down St. Wrytha's Stair and killed him. He was as sure of that as he was certain that Braden was Brake. And he was not going to tell the police of his discoveries—he was not going to tell anybody. The one thing that concerned him was—how best to make use of his knowledge with a view to bringing about a marriage between himself and Mark Ransford's ward. He had set his mind on that for twelve months past, and he was not a man to be baulked of his purpose. By fair means, or foul—he himself ignored the last word and would have substituted the term skilful for it—Pemberton Bryce meant to have Mary Bewery.

Mary Bewery herself had no thought of Bryce in her head when, the morning after that worthy's return to Wrychester, she set out, alone, for the Wrychester Golf Club. It was her habit to go there almost every day, and Bryce was well acquainted with her movements and knew precisely where to waylay her. And empty of Bryce though her mind was, she was not surprised when, at a lonely place on Wrychester Common, Bryce turned the corner of a spinny and met her face to face.

Mary would have passed on with no more than a silent recognition—she had made up her mind to have no further speech with her guardian's dismissed assistant. But she had to pass through a wicket gate at that point, and Bryce barred the way, with unmistakable purpose. It was plain to the girl that he had laid in wait for her. She was not without a temper of her own, and she suddenly let it out on the offender.

"Do you call this manly conduct, Dr. Bryce?" she demanded, turning an indignant and flushed face on him. "To waylay me here, when you know that I don't want to have anything more to do with you. Let me through, please—and go away!"

But Bryce kept a hand on the little gate, and when he spoke there was that in his voice which made the girl listen in spite of herself.

"I'm not here on my own behalf," he said quickly. "I give you my word I won't say a thing that need offend you. It's true I waited here for you—it's the only place in which I thought I could meet you, alone. I want to speak to you. It's this—do you know your guardian is in danger?"

Bryce had the gift of plausibility—he could convince people, against their instincts, even against their wills, that he was telling the truth. And Mary, after a swift glance, believed him.

"What danger?" she asked. "And if he is, and if you know he is—why don't you go direct to him?"

"The most fatal thing in the world to do!" exclaimed Bryce. "You know him—he can be nasty. That would bring matters to a crisis. And that, in his interest, is just what mustn't happen."

"I don't understand you," said Mary.

Bryce leaned nearer to her—across the gate.

"You know what happened last week," he said in a low voice. "The strange death of that man—Braden."

"Well?" she asked, with a sudden look of uneasiness. "What of it?"

"It's being rumoured—whispered—in the town that Dr. Ransford had something to do with that affair," answered Bryce. "Unpleasant—unfortunate—but it's a fact."

"Impossible!" exclaimed Mary with a heightening colour. "What could he have to do with it? What could give rise to such foolish—wicked—rumours?"

"You know as well as I do how people talk, how they will talk," said Bryce. "You can't stop them, in a place like Wrychester, where everybody knows everybody. There's a mystery around Braden's death—it's no use denying it. Nobody knows who he was, where he came from, why he came. And it's being hinted—I'm only telling you what I've gathered—that Dr. Ransford knows more than he's ever told. There are, I'm afraid, grounds."

"What grounds?" demanded Mary. While Bryce had been speaking, in his usual slow, careful fashion, she had been reflecting—and remembering Ransford's evident agitation at the time of the Paradise affair—and his relief when the inquest was over—and his sending her with flowers to the dead man's grave and she began to experience a sense of uneasiness and even of fear. "What grounds can there be?" she added. "Dr. Ransford didn't know that man—had never seen him!"

"That's not certain," replied Bryce. "It's said—remember, I'm only repeating things—it's said that just before the body was discovered, Dr. Ransford was seen—seen, mind you!—leaving the west porch of the Cathedral, looking as if he had just been very, much upset. Two persons saw this."

"Who are they?" asked Mary.

"That I'm not allowed to tell you," said Bryce, who had no intention of informing her that one person was himself and the other imaginary. "But I can assure you that I am certain—absolutely certain!—that their story is true. The fact is—I can corroborate it."

"You!" she exclaimed.

"I!" replied Bryce. "I will tell you something that I have never told anybody—up to now. I shan't ask you to respect my confidence—I've sufficient trust in you to know that you will, without any asking. Listen!—on that morning, Dr. Ransford went out of the surgery in the direction of the Deanery, leaving me alone there. A few minutes later, a tap came at the door. I opened it—and found—a man standing outside!"

"Not—that man?" asked Mary fearfully.

"That man—Braden," replied Bryce. "He asked for Dr. Ransford. I said he was out—would the caller leave his name? He said no—he had called because he had once known a Dr. Ransford, years before. He added something about calling again, and he went away—across the Close towards the Cathedral. I saw him again—not very long afterwards—lying in the corner of Paradise—dead!"

Mary Bewery was by this time pale and trembling—and Bryce continued to watch her steadily. She stole a furtive look at him.

"Why didn't you tell all this at the inquest?" she asked in a whisper.

"Because I knew how damning it would be to—Ransford," replied Bryce promptly. "It would have excited suspicion. I was certain that no one but myself knew that Braden had been to the surgery door—therefore, I thought that if I kept silence, his calling there would never be known. But—I have since found that I was mistaken. Braden was seen—going away from Dr. Ransford's."

"By—whom?" asked Mary.

"Mrs. Deramore—at the next house," answered Bryce. "She happened to be looking out of an upstairs window. She saw him go away and cross the Close."

"Did she tell you that?" demanded Mary, who knew Mrs. Deramore for a gossip.

"Between ourselves," said Bryce, "she did not! She told Mrs. Folliot—Mrs. Folliot told me."

"So—it is talked about!" exclaimed Mary.

"I said so," assented Bryce. "You know what Mrs. Folliot's tongue is."

"Then Dr. Ransford will get to hear of it," said Mary.

"He will be the last person to get to hear of it," affirmed Bryce. "These things are talked of, hole-and-corner fashion, a long time before they reach the ears of the person chiefly concerned."

Mary hesitated a moment before she asked her next question.

"Why have you told me all this?" she demanded at last.

"Because I didn't want you to be suddenly surprised," answered Bryce. "This—whatever it is—may come to a sudden head—of an unpleasant sort. These rumours spread—and the police are still keen about finding out things concerning this dead man. If they once get it into their heads that Dr. Ransford knew him—"

Mary laid her hand on the gate between them—and Bryce, who had done all he wished to do at that time, instantly opened it, and she passed through.

"I am much obliged to you," she said. "I don't know what it all means—but it is Dr. Ransford's affair—if there is any affair, which I doubt. Will you let me go now, please?"

Bryce stood aside and lifted his hat, and Mary, with no more than a nod, walked on towards the golf club-house across the Common, while Bryce turned off to the town, highly elated with his morning's work. He had sown the seeds of uneasiness and suspicion broadcast—some of them, he knew, would mature.

Mary Bewery played no golf that morning. In fact, she only went on to the club-house to rid herself of Bryce, and presently she returned home, thinking. And indeed, she said to herself, she had abundant food for thought. Naturally candid and honest, she did not at that moment doubt Bryce's good faith; much as she disliked him in most ways she knew that he had certain commendable qualities, and she was inclined to believe him when he said that he had kept silence in order to ward off consequences which might indirectly be unpleasant for her. But of him and his news she thought little—what occupied her mind was the possible connection between the stranger who had come so suddenly and disappeared so suddenly—and for ever!—and Mark Ransford. Was it possible—really possible—that there had been some meeting between them in or about the Cathedral precincts that morning? She knew, after a moment's reflection, that it was very possible—why not? And from that her thoughts followed a natural trend—was the mystery surrounding this man connected in any way with the mystery about herself and her brother?—that mystery of which (as it seemed to her) Ransford was so shy of speaking. And again—and for the hundredth time—she asked herself why he was so reticent, so evidently full of dislike of the subject, why he could not tell her and Dick whatever there was to tell, once for all?

She had to pass the Folliots' house in the far corner of the Close on her way home—a fine old mansion set in well-wooded grounds, enclosed by a high wall of old red brick. A door in that wall stood open, and inside it, talking to one of his gardeners, was Mr. Folliot—the vistas behind him were gay with flowers and rich with the roses which he passed all his days in cultivating. He caught sight of Mary as she passed the open doorway and called her back.

"Come in and have a look at some new roses I've got," he said. "Beauties! I'll give you a handful to carry home."

Mary rather liked Mr. Folliot. He was a big, half-asleep sort of man, who had few words and could talk about little else than his hobby. But he was a passionate lover of flowers and plants, and had a positive genius for rose-culture, and was at all times highly delighted to take flower-lovers round his garden. She turned at once and walked in, and Folliot led her away down the scented paths.

"It's an experiment I've been trying," he said, leading her up to a cluster of blooms of a colour and size which she had never seen before. "What do you think of the results?"

"Magnificent!" exclaimed Mary. "I never saw anything so fine!"

"No!" agreed Folliot, with a quiet chuckle. "Nor anybody else—because there's no such rose in England. I shall have to go to some of these learned parsons in the Close to invent me a Latin name for this—it's the result of careful experiments in grafting—took me three years to get at it. And see how it blooms,—scores on one standard."

He pulled out a knife and began to select a handful of the finest blooms, which he presently pressed into Mary's hand.

"By the by," he remarked as she thanked him and they turned away along the path, "I wanted to have a word with you—or with Ransford. Do you know—does he know—that that confounded silly woman who lives near to your house—Mrs. Deramore—has been saying some things—or a thing—which—to put it plainly—might make some unpleasantness for him?"

Mary kept a firm hand on her wits—and gave him an answer which was true enough, so far as she was aware.

"I'm sure he knows nothing," she said. "What is it, Mr. Folliot?"

"Why, you know what happened last week," continued Folliot, glancing knowingly at her. "The accident to that stranger. This Mrs. Deramore, who's nothing but an old chatterer, has been saying, here and there, that it's a very queer thing Dr. Ransford doesn't know anything about him, and can't say anything, for she herself, she says, saw the very man going away from Dr. Ransford's house not so long before the accident."

"I am not aware that he ever called at Dr. Ransford's," said Mary. "I never saw him—and I was in the garden, about that very time, with your stepson, Mr. Folliot."

"So Sackville told me," remarked Folliot. "He was present—and so was I—when Mrs. Deramore was tattling about it in our house yesterday. He said, then, that he'd never seen the man go to your house. You never heard your servants make any remark about it?"

"Never!" answered Mary.

"I told Mrs. Deramore she'd far better hold her tongue," continued Folliot. "Tittle-tattle of that sort is apt to lead to unpleasantness. And when it came to it, it turned out that all she had seen was this stranger strolling across the Close as if he'd just left your house. If—there's always some if! But I'll tell you why I mentioned it to you," he continued, nudging Mary's elbow and glancing covertly first at her and then at his house on the far side of the garden. "Ladies that are—getting on a bit in years, you know—like my wife, are apt to let their tongues wag, and between you and me, I shouldn't wonder if Mrs. Folliot has repeated what Mrs. Deramore said—eh? And I don't want the doctor to think that—if he hears anything, you know, which he may, and, again, he might—to think that it originated here. So, if he should ever mention it to you, you can say it sprang from his next-door neighbour. Bah!—they're a lot of old gossips, these Close ladies!"

"Thank you," said Mary. "But—supposing this man had been to our house—what difference would that make? He might have been for half a dozen reasons."

Folliot looked at her out of his half-shut eyes.

"Some people would want to know why Ransford didn't tell that—at the inquest," he answered. "That's all. When there's a bit of mystery, you know—eh?"

He nodded—as if reassuringly—and went off to rejoin his gardener, and Mary walked home with her roses, more thoughtful than ever. Mystery?—a bit of mystery? There was a vast and heavy cloud of mystery, and she knew she could have no peace until it was lifted.

* * *

In the midst of all her perplexity at that moment, Mary Bewery was certain of one fact about which she had no perplexity nor any doubt—it would not be long before the rumours of which Bryce and Mr. Folliot had spoken. Although she had only lived in Wrychester a comparatively short time she had seen and learned enough of it to know that the place was a hotbed of gossip. Once gossip was started there, it spread, widening in circle after circle. And though Bryce was probably right when he said that the person chiefly concerned was usually the last person to hear what was being whispered, she knew well enough that sooner or later this talk about Ransford would come to Ransford's own ears. But she had no idea that it was to come so soon, nor from her own brother.

Lunch in the Ransford menage was an informal meal. At a quarter past one every day, it was on the table—a cold lunch to which the three members of the household helped themselves as they liked, independent of the services of servants. Sometimes all three were there at the same moment; sometimes Ransford was half an hour late; the one member who was always there to the moment was Dick Bewery, who fortified himself sedulously after his morning's school labours. On this particular day all three met in the dining-room at once, and sat down together. And before Dick had eaten many mouthfuls of a cold pie to which he had just liberally helped himself he bent confidentially across the table towards his guardian.

"There's something I think you ought to be told about, sir," he remarked with a side-glance at Mary. "Something I heard this morning at school. You know, we've a lot of fellows—town boys—who talk."

"I daresay," responded Ransford dryly. "Following the example of their mothers, no doubt. Well—what is it?"

He, too, glanced at Mary—and the girl had her work set to look unconscious.

"It's this," replied Dick, lowering his voice in spite of the fact that all three were alone. "They're saying in the town that you know something which you won't tell about that affair last week. It's being talked of."

Ransford laughed—a little cynically.

"Are you quite sure, my boy, that they aren't saying that I daren't tell?" he asked. "Daren't is a much more likely word than won't, I think."

"Well—about that, sir," acknowledged Dick. "Comes to that, anyhow."

"And what are their grounds?" inquired Ransford. "You've heard them, I'll be bound!"

"They say that man—Braden—had been here—here, to the house!—that morning, not long before he was found dead," answered Dick. "Of course, I said that was all bosh!—I said that if he'd been here and seen you, I'd have heard of it, dead certain."

"That's not quite so dead certain, Dick, as that I have no knowledge of his ever having been here," said Ransford. "But who says he came here?"

"Mrs. Deramore," replied Dick promptly. "She says she saw him go away from the house and across the Close, a little before ten. So Jim Deramore says, anyway—and he says his mother's eyes are as good as another's."

"Doubtless!" assented Ransford. He looked at Mary again, and saw that she was keeping hers fixed on her plate. "Well," he continued, "if it will give you any satisfaction, Dick, you can tell the gossips that Dr. Ransford never saw any man, Braden or anybody else, at his house that morning, and that he never exchanged a word with Braden. So much for that! But," he added, "you needn't expect them to believe you. I know these people—if they've got an idea into their heads they'll ride it to death. Nevertheless, what I say is a fact."

Dick presently went off—and once more Ransford looked at Mary. And this time, Mary had to meet her guardian's inquiring glance.

"Have you heard anything of this?" he asked.

"That there was a rumour—yes," she replied without hesitation. "But—not until just now—this morning."

"Who told you of it?" inquired Ransford.

Mary hesitated. Then she remembered that Mr. Folliot, at any rate, had not bound her to secrecy.

"Mr. Folliot," she replied. "He called me into his garden, to give me those roses, and he mentioned that Mrs. Deramore had said these things to Mrs. Folliot, and as he seemed to think it highly probable that Mrs. Folliot would repeat them, he told me because he didn't want you to think that the rumour had originally arisen at his house."

"Very good of him, I'm sure," remarked Ransford dryly. "They all like to shift the blame from one to another! But," he added, looking searchingly at her, "you don't know anything about—Braden's having come here?"

He saw at once that she did, and Mary saw a slight shade of anxiety come over his face.

"Yes, I do!" she replied. "That morning. But—it was told to me, only today, in strict confidence."

"In strict confidence!" he repeated. "May I know—by whom?"

"Dr. Bryce," she answered. "I met him this morning. And I think you ought to know. Only—it was in confidence." She paused for a moment, looking at him, and her face grew troubled. "I hate to suggest it," she continued, "but—will you come with me to see him, and I'll ask him—things being as they are—to tell you what he told me. I can't—without his permission."

Ransford shook his head and frowned.

"I dislike it!" he said. "It's—it's putting ourselves in his power, as it were. But—I'm not going to be left in the dark. Put on your hat, then."

Bryce, ever since his coming to Wrychester, had occupied rooms in an old house in Friary Lane, at the back of the Close. He was comfortably lodged. Downstairs he had a double sitting-room, extending from the front to the back of the house; his front window looked out on one garden, his back window on another. He had just finished lunch in the front part of his room, and was looking out of his window, wondering what to do with himself that afternoon, when he saw Ransford and Mary Bewery approaching. He guessed the reason of their visit at once, and went straight to the front door to meet them, and without a word motioned them to follow him into his own quarters. It was characteristic of him that he took the first word—before either of his visitors could speak.

"I know why you've come," he said, as he closed the door and glanced at Mary. "You either want my permission that you should tell Dr. Ransford what I told you this morning, or, you want me to tell him myself. Am I right?"

"I should be glad if you would tell him," replied Mary. "The rumour you spoke of has reached him—he ought to know what you can tell. I have respected your confidence, so far."

The two men looked at each other. And this time it was Ransford who spoke first.

"It seems to me," he said, "that there is no great reason for privacy. If rumours are flying about in Wrychester, there is an end of privacy. Dick tells me they are saying at the school that it is known that Braden called on me at my house shortly before he was found dead. I know nothing whatever of any such call! But—I left you in my surgery that morning. Do you know if he came there?"

"Yes!" answered Bryce. "He did come. Soon after you'd gone out."

"Why did you keep that secret?" demanded Ransford. "You could have told it to the police—or to the Coroner—or to me. Why didn't you?"

Before Bryce could answer, all three heard a sharp click of the front garden gate, and looking round, saw Mitchington coming up the walk.

"Here's one of the police, now," said Bryce calmly. "Probably come to extract information. I would much rather he didn't see you here—but I'd also like you to hear what I shall say to him. Step inside there," he continued, drawing aside the curtains which shut off the back room. "Don't stick at trifles!—you don't know what may be afoot."

He almost forced them away, drew the curtains again, and hurrying to the front door, returned almost immediately with Mitchington.

"Hope I'm not disturbing you, doctor," said the inspector, as Bryce brought him in and again closed the door. "Not? All right, then—I came round to ask you a question. There's a queer rumour getting out in the town, about that affair last week. Seems to have sprung from some of those old dowagers in the Close."

"Of course!" said Bryce. He was mixing a whisky-and-soda for his caller, and his laugh mingled with the splash of the siphon. "Of course! I've heard it."

"You've heard?" remarked Mitchington. "Um! Good health, sir!—heard, of course, that—"

"That Braden called on Dr. Ransford not long before the accident, or murder, or whatever it was, happened," said Bryce. "That's it—eh?"

"Something of that sort," agreed Mitchington. "It's being said, anyway, that Braden was at Ransford's house, and presumably saw him, and that Ransford, accordingly, knows something about him which he hasn't told. Now—what do you know? Do you know if Ransford and Braden did meet that morning?"

"Not at Ransford's house, anyway," answered Bryce promptly. "I can prove that. But since this rumour has got out, I'll tell you what I do know, and what the truth is. Braden did come to Ransford's—not to the house, but to the surgery. He didn't see Ransford—Ransford had gone out, across the Close. Braden saw—me!"

"Bless me!—I didn't know that," remarked Mitchington. "You never mentioned it."

"You'll not wonder that I didn't," said Bryce, laughing lightly, "when I tell you what the man wanted."

"What did he want, then?" asked Mitchington.

"Merely to be told where the Cathedral Library was," answered Bryce.

Ransford, watching Mary Bewery, saw her cheeks flush, and knew that Bryce was cheerfully telling lies. But Mitchington evidently had no suspicion.

"That all?" he asked. "Just a question?"

"Just a question—that question," replied Bryce. "I pointed out the Library—and he walked away. I never saw him again until I was fetched to him—dead. And I thought so little of the matter that—well, it never even occurred to me to mention it."

"Then—though he did call—he never saw Ransford?" asked the inspector.

"I tell you Ransford was already gone out," answered Bryce. "He saw no one but myself. Where Mrs. Deramore made her mistake—I happen to know, Mitchington, that she started this rumour—was in trying to make two and two into five. She saw this man crossing the Close, as if from Ransford's house and she at once imagined he'd seen and been talking with Ransford."

"Old fool!" said Mitchington. "Of course, that's how these tales get about. However, there's more than that in the air."

The two listeners behind the curtains glanced at each other. Ransford's glance showed that he was already chafing at the unpleasantness of his position—but Mary's only betokened apprehension. And suddenly, as if she feared that Ransford would throw the curtains aside and walk into the front room, she laid a hand on his arm and motioned him to be patient—and silent.

"Oh?" said Bryce. "More in the air? About that business?"

"Just so," assented Mitchington. "To start with, that man Varner, the mason, has never ceased talking. They say he's always at it—to the effect that the verdict of the jury at the inquest was all wrong, and that his evidence was put clean aside. He persists that he did see—what he swore he saw."

"He'll persist in that to his dying day," said Bryce carelessly. "If that's all there is—"

"It isn't," interrupted the inspector. "Not by a long chalk! But Varner's is a direct affirmation—the other matter's a sort of ugly hint. There's a man named Collishaw, a townsman, who's been employed as a mason's labourer about the Cathedral of late. This Collishaw, it seems, was at work somewhere up in the galleries, ambulatories, or whatever they call those upper regions, on the very morning of the affair. And the other night, being somewhat under the influence of drink, and talking the matter over with his mates at a tavern, he let out some dark hints that he could tell something if he liked. Of course, he was pressed to tell them—and wouldn't. Then—so my informant tells me—he was dared to tell, and became surlily silent. That, of course, spread, and got to my ears. I've seen Collishaw."

"Well?" asked Bryce.

"I believe the man does know something," answered Mitchington. "That's the impression I carried away, anyhow. But—he won't speak. I charged him straight out with knowing something—but it was no good. I told him of what I'd heard. All he would say was that whatever he might have said when he'd got a glass of beer or so too much, he wasn't going to say anything now neither for me nor for anybody!"

"Just so!" remarked Bryce. "But—he'll be getting a glass too much again, some day, and then—then, perhaps he'll add to what he said before. And—you'll be sure to hear of it."

"I'm not certain of that," answered Mitchington. "I made some inquiry and I find that Collishaw is usually a very sober and retiring sort of chap—he'd been lured on to drink when he let out what he did. Besides, whether I'm right or wrong, I got the idea into my head that he'd already been—squared!"

"Squared!" exclaimed Bryce. "Why, then, if that affair was really murder, he'd be liable to being charged as an accessory after the fact!"

"I warned him of that," replied Mitchington. "Yes, I warned him solemnly."

"With no effect?" asked Bryce.

"He's a surly sort of man," said Mitchington. "The sort that takes refuge in silence. He made no answer beyond a growl."

"You really think he knows something?" suggested Bryce. "Well—if there is anything, it'll come out—in time."

"Oh, it'll come out!" assented Mitchington. "I'm by no means satisfied with that verdict of the coroner's inquiry. I believe there was foul play—of some sort. I'm still following things up—quietly. And—I'll tell you something—between ourselves—I've made an important discovery. It's this. On the evening of Braden's arrival at the Mitre he was out, somewhere, for a whole two hours—by himself."

"I thought we learned from Mrs. Partingley that he and the other man, Dellingham, spent the evening together?" said Bryce.

"So we did—but that was not quite so," replied Mitchington. "Braden went out of the Mitre just before nine o'clock and he didn't return until a few minutes after eleven. Now, then, where did he go?"

"I suppose you're trying to find that out?" asked Bryce, after a pause, during which the listeners heard the caller rise and make for the door.

"Of course!" replied Mitchington, with a confident laugh. "And—I shall! Keep it to yourself, doctor."

When Bryce had let the inspector out and returned to his sitting-room, Ransford and Mary had come from behind the curtains. He looked at them and shook his head.

"You heard—a good deal, you see," he observed.

"Look here!" said Ransford peremptorily. "You put that man off about the call at my surgery. You didn't tell him the truth."

"Quite right," assented Bryce. "I didn't. Why should I?"

"What did Braden ask you?" demanded Ransford. "Come, now?"

"Merely if Dr. Ransford was in," answered Bryce, "remarking that he had once known a Dr. Ransford. That was—literally—all. I replied that you were not in."

Ransford stood silently thinking for a moment or two. Then he moved towards the door.

"I don't see that any good will come of more talk about this," he said. "We three, at any rate, know this—I never saw Braden when he came to my house."

Then he motioned Mary to follow him, and they went away, and Bryce, having watched them out of sight, smiled at himself in his mirror—with full satisfaction.

"THE PARADISE MYSTERY", J. S. Fletcher