The Paradise Mystery 🕵️‍♂️🌴 | A Thrilling Detective Story by J. S. Fletcher

The Paradise Mystery 🕵️‍♂️🌴 | A Thrilling Detective Story by J. S. Fletcher

Welcome to Classic Detective Mysteries. In today’s story, The Paradise Mystery by JS Fletcher, we delve into a gripping tale of crime and intrigue. A mysterious death in an idyllic setting sets the stage for a suspenseful investigation where every clue seems to lead to more questions than answers. Follow along as our detective uncovers secrets and untangles a web of lies to reveal the truth behind the paradise gone wrong. Chapter 1. Only the Guardian. American tourists, sure appreciators of all that is ancient and picturesque in England, invariably come to a halt, holding their breath in a sudden catch of wonder. As they pass through the half ruinous gateway, which admits to the close of nowhere else in England is there a fairer prospect of old world peace. There before their eyes, set in the center of a great green sward fringed by tall elms and giant beaches, rises the vast fabric of the 13th century cathedral. Its high spire piercing the skies in which rooks are forever circling and calling. The timeworn stone at a little distance delicate as lace work is transformed at different hours of the day into shifting shades of color varying from gray to purple. The massiveness of the great nave and transeps contrasts impressively with the gradual tapering of the spire, rising so high above turret and clartory that it at last becomes a mere line against the ether in morning as in afternoon or in evening. Here is a perpetual atmosphere of rest, and not around the great church alone, but in the quaint and ancient houses which fence in the clothes, little less old than the mighty mass of stone on which their ivy framed windows look, these houses make the casual observer feel that here, if anywhere in the world, life must needs run smoothly. Under those high gables, behind those mullianted windows, in the beautiful old gardens lying between the stone porches and the elm shadowed lawn, nothing, one would think, could possibly exist but leisured and pleasant existence. Even the busy streets of the old city, outside the crumbling gateway, seem for the moment far off. In one of the oldest of these houses, half hidden behind trees and shrubs in a corner of the close, three people sat at breakfast one fine May morning. The room in which they sat was in keeping with the old house and its surroundings, a long low ceiling room with oak paneling around its walls, and oak beams across its roof, a room of old furniture and old pictures and old books, its antique atmosphere relieved by great masses of flowers set here and there in old china bowls. Through its wide windows, the casements of which were thrown wide open, there was an inviting prospect of a high-edged flower garden, and seen in vistas through the trees and shrubberies, of patches of the west front of the cathedral, now somber and gray in shadow. But on the garden and into this floweredented room, the sun was shining gay through the trees and making gleams of light on the silver and china on the table and on the faces of the three people who sat around it. Of these three, two were young, and the third was one of those men whose age it is never easy to guess. A tall, cleanshaven, brighteyed, alert-looking man, good-looking in a clever, professional sort of way. a man whom no one could have taken for anything but a member of one of the learned callings. In some lights he looked no more than 40. A strong light betrayed the fact that his dark hair had a streak of gray in it and was showing a tendency to whiten about the temples. A strong, intellectually superior man. this scrupulously groomed and well-dressed as befitted what he really was, a medical practitioner with an excellent connection amongst the exclusive society of a cathedral town. Around him hung an undeniable air of content and prosperity. as he turned over a pile of letters which stood by his plate or glanced at the morning newspaper which lay at his elbow. It was easy to see that he had no cares beyond those of the day and that they so far as he knew then were not likely to affect him greatly. Seeing him in these pleasant domestic circumstances, at the head of his table, with abundant evidences of comfort and refinement and modest luxury about him, anyone would have said without hesitation that Dr. Mark Ransford was undeniably one of the fortunate folk of this world. The second person of the three was a boy of apparently 17, a well-built, handsome lad of the senior school boy type, who was devoting himself in business-like fashion to two widely differing pursuits. One, the consumption of eggs and bacon and dry toast. The other, the study of a Latin textbook, which he had propped up in front of him against the old-fashioned silver cuit. His quick eyes wandered alternately between his book and his plate. Now and then he muttered a line or two to himself. His companions took no notice of these combinations of eating and learning. They knew from experience that it was his way to make up at breakfast time for the moments he had stolen from his studies the night before. It was not difficult to see that the third member of the party, a girl of 19 or 20, was the boy’s sister. Each had a wealth of brown hair, inclining, in the girl’s case, to a shade that had tints of gold in it. Each had gray eyes, in which there was a mixture of blue. Each had a bright, vivid color. Each was undeniably good-looking and eminently healthy. No one would have doubted that both had lived a good deal of an open air existence. The boy was already muscular and senue. The girl looked as if she was well acquainted with the tennis racket and the golf stick. Nor would anyone have made the mistake of thinking that these two were blood relations of the man at the head of the table. Between them and him, there was not the least resemblance of feature of color or of manner. While the boy learned the last lines of his Latin and the doctor turned over the newspaper, the girl read a letter evidently from the large sprawling handwriting, the missive of some girlish correspondent. She was deep in it when from one of the turrets of the cathedral a bell began to ring. At that she glanced at her brother. “There’s Martin Dick,” she said. “You’ll have to hurry.” Many a long year before that, in one of the bygone centuries, a worthy citizen of Reichester, Martin by name, had left a sum of money to the dean and chapter of the cathedral, on condition that as long as ever the cathedral stood, they should cause to be rung a bell from its smaller bell tower for 3 minutes before 9:00 every morning, all the year round. What Martin’s object had been, no one now knew, but this bell served to remind young gentlemen going to offices and boys going to school that the hour of their servitude was near. And Dick Bury, without a word, bolted half his coffee, snatched up his book, grabbed at a cap, which lay with more books on a chair close by, and vanished through the open window. The doctor laughed, laid aside his newspaper, and handed his cup across the table. I don’t think you need bother yourself about Dicks ever being late, Mary. He said, you are not quite aware of the power of legs that are only 17 years old. Dick could get to any given point in just about 1/4 of the time that I could, for instance, moreover, he has a cunning knowledge of every shortcut in the city. Mary Buri took the empty cup and began to refill it. I don’t like him to be late, she remarked. It’s the beginning of bad habits. Oh well, said Ransford indulgently. He’s pretty free from anything of that sort, you know. I haven’t even suspected him of smoking yet. That’s because he thinks smoking would stop his growth and interfere with his cricket, answered Mary. He would smoke if it weren’t for that. That’s giving him high praise then, said Ransford. You couldn’t give him higher, know how to repress his inclinations. An excellent thing, and most unusual, I fancy most people don’t. He took his refilled cup, rose from the table, and opened a box of cigarettes which stood on the mantelpiece. And the girl, instead of picking up her letter again, glanced at him a little doubtfully. That reminds me of of something I wanted to say to you, she said. You’re quite right about people not repressing their inclinations. I I wish some people would. Ransford turned quickly from the hearth and gave her a sharp look beneath which her color heightened. Her eyes shifted their gaze away to her letter, and she picked it up and began to fold it nervously. And at that, Ransford wrapped out a name, putting a quick suggestion of meaning inquiry into his voice. “Bryce?” he asked. The girl nodded her face showing distinct annoyance and dislike. Before saying more, Ransford lighted a cigarette. “Been at it again?” he said at last. “Since last time?” “Wice?” she answered. I didn’t like to tell you I’ve hated to bother you about it. But what am I to do? I dislike him intensely. I can’t tell why, but it’s there, and nothing could ever alter the feeling. And though I told him before that it was useless, he mentioned it again yesterday at Mrs. Foliott’s garden party. Confound his impedance, growled Ransford. Oh well, I’ll have to settle with him myself. It’s useless trifling with anything like that. I gave him a quiet hint before, and since he won’t take it, all right. But what shall you do? She asked anxiously. Not send him away. If he’s any decency about him, he’ll go after what I say to him, answered Ransford. Don’t you trouble yourself about it. I’m not at all keen about him. He’s a clever enough fellow and a good assistant, but I don’t like him personally. Never did. I don’t want to think that anything that I say should lose him his situation or whatever you call it, she remarked slowly. That would seem no need to bother, interrupted Ransford. He’ll get another in 2 minutes, so to speak. Anyway, we can’t have this going on. The fellow must be an ass. When I was young, he stopped short at that, and turning away, looked out across the garden as if some recollection had suddenly struck him. when you were young, which is of course such an awfully long time since, said the girl a little teasingly. What? Only that if a woman said no unmistakably once, a man took it as final, replied Ransford. At least so I was always given to believe. Nowadays, you forget that Mr. Peetton Bryce is what most people would call a very pushing young man, said Mary. If he doesn’t get what he wants in this world, it won’t be for not asking for it. But if you must speak to him, and I really think you must, will you tell him that he is not going to get me? Perhaps he’ll take it finally from you as my guardian. I don’t know if parents and guardians count for much in these degenerate days, said Ransford, but I won’t have him annoying you, and I suppose it has come to annoyance. It’s very annoying to be asked three times by a man whom you’ve told flatly once for all that you don’t want him at any time ever,” she answered. “It’s irritating.” “All right,” said Ransford quietly. “I’ll speak to him. There’s going to be no annoyance for you under this roof.” The girl gave him a quick glance, and Ransford turned away from her and picked up his letters. “Thank you,” she said, “but there’s no need to tell me that because I know it already. Now I wonder if you’ll tell me something more. Ransford turned back with a sudden apprehension. Well, he asked bruskly. What? When are you going to tell me all about Dick and myself? She asked. You promised that you would, you know, someday. And a whole year’s gone by since then. And Dick 17. He won’t be satisfied always. just to know no more than that our father and mother died when we were very little and that you’ve been guardian and all that you have been to us will he now?” Ransford laid down his letters again and thrusting his hands in his pockets squared his shoulders against the mantelpiece. “Don’t you think you might wait until you’re 21?” he asked. “Why?” she said with a laugh. “I’m just 20. Do you really think I shall be any wiser in 12 months?” “Of course I shant. You don’t know that,” he replied. “You may be a great deal wiser. But what has that got to do with it?” she persisted. Is there any reason why I shouldn’t be told everything? She was looking at him with a certain amount of demand, and Ransford, who had always known that some moment of this sort must inevitably come, felt that she was not going to be put off with ordinary excuses. He hesitated, and she went on speaking. You know, she continued almost pleadingly, “We don’t know anything at all. I never have known, and until lately Dick has been too young to care.” “Has he begun asking questions?” demanded Ransford hastily. “Once or twice lately?” “Yes,” replied Mary. “It’s only natural,” she laughed a little. A forced laugh. They say, she went on that it doesn’t matter nowadays if you can’t tell who your grandfather was. But just think we don’t know who our father was except that his name was John Bury. That doesn’t convey much. You know more, said Ransford. I told you always have told you that he was an early friend of mine, a man of business who with your mother died young, and I as their friend became guardian to you and Dick. Is is there anything much more that I could tell? There’s something I should very much like to know personally, she answered after a pause which lasted so long that Ransford began to feel uncomfortable under it. Don’t be angry or hurt if I tell you plainly what it is. I’m quite sure it’s never even occurred to Dick. But I’m 3 years ahead of him. It’s this. Have we been dependent on you? Ransford’s face flushed, and he turned deliberately to the window, and for a moment stood staring out on his garden and the glimpses of the cathedral, and just as deliberately as he had turned away, he turned back. “No,” he said, “Since you ask me, I’ll tell you that you’ve both got money due to you when you’re of age. It It’s in my hands. Not a great lot, but sufficient to to cover all your expenses, education, everything. When you’re 21, I’ll hand over yours when Dick’s 21 his. Perhaps I ought to have told you all that before, but I didn’t think it necessary. I I dare say I have a tendency to let things slide. You’ve never let things slide about us, she replied quickly with a sudden glance, which made him turn away again. And I only wanted to know because I’d got an idea that, well, that we were owing everything to you, not from me, he exclaimed. No, that would never be, she said. But don’t you understand? I wanted to know something. Thank you. I won’t ask more now. I’ve always meant to tell you a good deal, remarked Ransford after another pause. You see, I can scarcely yet realize that you’re both growing up. You were at school a year ago, and Dick is still very young. Are are you more satisfied now? He went on anxiously. If not, I’m quite satisfied, she answered. Perhaps someday you’ll tell me more about our father and mother, but never mind even that now. You’re sure you haven’t minded my asking what I have asked. Of course not. Of course not, he said hastily. I ought to have remembered, and but we’ll talk again. I must get into the surgery and have a word with Bryce, too. If you could only make him see reason and promise not to offend again, she said, wouldn’t that solve the difficulty? Ransford shook his head and made no answer. He picked up his letters again and went out and down a long stonewalled passage which led to his surgery at the side of the house. He was alone there when he had shut the door, and he relieved his feelings with a deep groan. Heaven help me if the lad ever insists on the real truth and on having proofs and facts given to him,” he muttered. “I shouldn’t mind telling her when she’s a bit older, but he wouldn’t understand as she would.” Anyway, thank God I can keep up the pleasant fiction about the money without her ever knowing that I told her a deliberate lie just now. But what’s in the future? Here’s one man to be dismissed already, and there’ll be others, and one of them will be the favored man. That man will have to be told, and so will she then. And my God, she doesn’t see and mustn’t see that I’m madly in love with her myself. She’s no idea of it, and she shant. I must must continue to be, only the guardian. He laughed a little cynically as he laid his letters down on his desk and proceeded to open them, in which occupation he was presently, interrupted by the opening of the side door and the entrance of Mr. to Peanutton Bryce. Chapter 2. Making an enemy. It was characteristic of Peetton Bryce that he always walked into a room as if its occupant were asleep, and he was afraid of waking him. He had a gentle step which was soft without being stealthy, and quiet movements which brought him suddenly to anybody’s side before his presence was noticed. He was by Ransford’s desk. Heir. Ransford knew he was in the surgery, and Ransford’s sudden realization of his presence roused a certain feeling of irritation in his mind, which he instantly endeavored to suppress. It was no use getting cross with a man of whom you were about to rid yourself, he said to himself. And for the moment, after replying to his assistant’s greeting, a greeting as quiet as his entrance, he went on reading his letters, and Bryce turned off to that part of the surgery in which the drugs were kept, and busied himself in making up some prescription. 10 minutes went by in silence. Then Ransford pushed his correspondence aside, laid a paper weight on it, and twisting his chair round, looked at the man to whom he was going to say some unpleasant things. Within himself he was revolving a question, how would Bryce take it, he had never liked this assistant of his, although he had then had him in employment for nearly 2 years. There was something about Peetton Bryce which he did not understand and could not fathom. He had come to him with excellent testimonials and good recommendations. He was well up to his work, successful with patients, thoroughly capable as a general practitioner. There was no fault to be found with him on any professional grounds. But to Ransford his personality was objectionable. Why? He was not quite sure. Outwardly, Bryce was rather more than presentable. A tall, good-looking man of 28 or 30, whom some people women especially, would call handsome. He was the sort of young man who knows the value of good clothes and a smart appearance, and his professional manner was all that could be desired. But Ransford could not help distinguishing between Bryce the doctor and Bryce the man, and Bryce the man he did not like. Outside the professional part of him, Bryce seemed to him to be undoubtedly deep, sly, cunning. He conveyed the impression of being one of those men whose ears are always on the stretch, who take everything in and give little out. There was a curious air of watchfulness and of secrecy about him in private matters, which was as repellent to Ransford’s thinking, as it was hard to explain. Anyway, in private affairs, he did not like his assistant, and he liked him less than ever, as he glanced at him on this particular occasion. “I want a word with you,” he said curtly. “I’d better say it now.” Bryce, who was slowly pouring some liquid from one bottle into another, looked quietly across the room, and did not interrupt himself in his work. Ransford knew that he must have recognized a certain significance in the words just addressed to him, but he showed no outward sign of it, and the liquid went on trickling from one bottle to the other with the same uniform steadiness. “Yes,” said Bryce inquiringly. “One moment.” He finished his task calmly, put the corks in the bottles, labeled one, restored the other to a shelf, and turned round. Not a man to be easily startled. not easily turned from a purpose this, thought Ransford, as he glanced at Bryce’s eyes, which had a trick of fastening their gaze on people with an odd, disconcerting persistency. I’m sorry to say what I must say, he began, but you’ve brought it on yourself. I gave you a hint some time ago that your attentions were not welcome to Miss Bury. Bryce made no immediate response. Instead, leaning almost carelessly and indifferently against the table at which he had been busy with drugs and bottles, he took a small file from his waste coat pocket and began to polish his carefully cut nails. “Yes,” he said, after a pause. Well, in spite of it, continued Ransford, you’ve since addressed her again on the matter, not merely once, but twice, Bryce put his file away, and thrusting his hands in his pockets, crossed his feet as he leaned back against the table, his whole attitude suggesting, whether meaningly or not, that he was very much at his ease. There’s a great deal to be said on a point like this, he observed. If a man wishes a certain young woman to become his wife, what right has any other man or the young woman herself, for that matter to say that he mustn’t express his desires to her? None, said Ransford, provided he only does it once and takes the answer he gets as final. I disagree with you entirely, retorted Bryce, on the last particular. At any rate, a man who considers any word of a woman’s as being final is a fool. What a woman thinks on Monday, she’s almost dead certain not to think on Tuesday. The whole history of human relationship is on my side there. It’s no opinion. It’s a fact. Ransford stared at this frank remark, and Bryce went on coolly and imperturbably as if he had been discussing a medical problem. A man who takes a woman’s first answer as final, he continued, is, I repeat, a fool. There are lots of reasons why a woman shouldn’t know her own mind at the first time of asking. She may be too surprised. She may be quite decided. She may say one thing when she really means another. That often happens. She isn’t much better equipped at the second time of asking, and there are women, young ones, who aren’t really certain of themselves at the third time. All that’s common sense. I’ll tell you what it is, suddenly exclaimed Ransford, after remaining silent for a moment under this flow of philosophy. I’m not going to discuss theories and ideas. I know one young woman, at any rate, who is certain of herself. Miss Buri does not feel any inclination to you now, nor at any time to be. She’s told you so three times, and you should take her answer and behave yourself accordingly.” Bryce favored his senior with a searching look. How does Miss Bury know that she may be inclined to in the future? He asked. She may come to regard me with favor. No, she won’t, declared Ransford. Better hear the truth and be done with it. She doesn’t like you, and she doesn’t want to either. Why can’t you take your answer like a man? What’s your conception of a man? asked Bryce. That and a good one, exclaimed Ransford. may satisfy you, but not me, said Bryce. Mine’s different. My conception of a man is of a being who’s got some perseverance. You can get anything in this world, anything, by pegging away for it. You’re not going to get my ward, suddenly said Ransford. That’s flat. She doesn’t want you, and she’s now said so three times, and I support her. What have you against me? asked Bryce calmly. If, as you say, you support her in her resolution not to listen to my proposals, you must have something against me. What is it? That’s a question you’ve no right to put, replied Ransford, for it’s utterly unnecessary. So, I’m not going to answer it. I have nothing against you as regards your work. Nothing. I’m willing to give you an excellent testimonial. Oh, remarked Bryce quietly. That means you wish me to go away. I certainly think it would be best, said Ransford. In that case, continued Bryce more coolly than ever. I shall certainly want to know what you have against me, or what Miss Bury has against me. Why am I objected to as a suitor? You, at any rate, know who I am. You know that my father is of our own profession and a man of reputation and standing, and that I myself came to you on high recommendation. looked at from my standpoint. I’m a thoroughly eligible young man, and there’s a point you forget. There’s no mystery about me.” Ransford turned sharply in his chair as he noticed the emphasis which Bryce put on his last word. “What do you mean?” he demanded. “What I’ve just said,” replied Bryce. “There’s no mystery attaching to me. Any question about me can be answered. Now, you can’t say that as regards your ward. That’s a fact, Dr. Ransford. Ransford, in years gone by, had practiced himself in the art of restraining his temper, naturally a somewhat quick one, and he made a strong effort in that direction now, recognizing that there was something behind his assistant’s last remark, and that Bryce meant him to know it was there. “I’ll repeat what I’ve just said,” he answered. “What do you mean by that?” “I hear things,” said Bryce. “People will talk. Even a doctor can’t refuse to hear what gossiping and geralous patients say since she came to you from school a year ago. Rochester people have been much interested in Miss Bury and in her brother too. And there are a good many residents of the close you know their nice inquisitive ways who want to know who the sister and brother really are and what your relationship is to them. Confound their impedance growled Ransford. By all means, agreed Bryce, and for all I care, let them be confounded too, but if you imagine that the choice and select coties of a cathedral town, consisting mainly of the relics of deceased deans, cannons, prebendries, and the like, and of maiden ants, elderly spinsters, and tea table haunting curates, are free from gossip. Why, you’re a singularly innocent person. They’d better not begin gossiping about my affairs, said Ransford. Otherwise, you can’t stop them from gossiping about your affairs, interrupted Bryce cheerfully. Of course, they gossip about your affairs. Have gossiped about them. We’ll continue to gossip about them. It’s human nature. You’ve heard them? asked Ransford, who was too vexed to keep back his curiosity. You yourself? As you are aware, I am often asked out to tea, replied Bryce, and to garden parties and tennis parties, and choice and cozy functions patronized by curates and associated with crumpets. I have heard with these years. I can even repeat the sort of thing I have heard. That dear, delightful Miss Bury, what a charming girl, and that good-looking boy, her brother, quite a dear. Now I wonder who they really are. Words of Dr. Ransford, of course. Really, how very romantic and just a little a unusual. Such a comparatively young man to have such a really charming girl as his ward. Can’t be more than 45 himself and she’s 20. How very very romantic. Really, one would think there ought to be a chaperon. Damn, said Ransford under his breath. Just so, agreed Bryce. But that’s the sort of thing. Do you want more? I can supply an unlimited quantity in the piece if you like, but it’s all according to sample. So, in addition to your other qualities, remarked Ransford, you’re a gossiper. Bryce smiled slowly and shook his head. No, he replied. I’m a listener, a good one, too. But do you see my point? I say, there’s no mystery about me. If Miss Bury will honor me with her hand, she’ll get a man whose antecedance will bear the strictest investigation. Are you inferring that hers won’t? demanded Ransford. I’m not inferring anything, said Bryce. I am speaking for myself of myself, pressing my own claim, if you like, on you, the guardian. You might do much worse than support my claims, Dr. Ransford. Claims, man, retorted Ransford. You’ve got no claims. What are you talking about claims? My pretensions, then? Answered Bryce. If there is a mystery, as right people say there is about Miss Bury, it would be safe with me, whatever you may think, I’m a thoroughly dependable man when it’s in my own interest. And when it isn’t, asked Ransford. What are you then, as you’re so candid, I could be a very bad enemy, replied Bryce. There was a moment’s silence during which the two men looked attentively at each other. I’ve told you the truth, said Ransford at last. Miss Bury flatly refuses to entertain any idea whatever of ever marrying you. She earnestly hopes that that eventuality may never be mentioned to her again. Will you give me your word of honor to respect her wishes? No, answered Bryce. I won’t. Why not? asked Ransford with a faint show of anger. A woman’s wishes. Because I may consider that I see signs of a changed mind in her, said Bryce. That’s why you’ll never see any change of mind, declared Ransford. That’s certain. Is that your fixed determination? It is, answered Bryce. I’m not the sort of man who is easily repelled. Then in that case, said Ransford, we had better part company. He rose from his desk, and going over to a safe, which stood in a corner, unlocked it, and took some papers from an inside drawer. He consulted one of these and turned to Bryce. You remember our agreement, he continued. Your engagement was to be determined by a 3 months notice on either side or at my will at any time by payment of 3 months salary. Quite right, agreed Bryce. I remember, of course. Then I’ll give you a check for 3 months salary now, said Ransford, and sat down again at his desk. That will settle matters definitely, and I hope agreeably. Bryce made no reply. He remained leaning against the table, watching Ransford write the check. And when Ransford laid the check down at the edge of the desk, he made no movement towards it. “You must see,” remarked Ransford, halfap apologetically, “that it’s the only thing I can do. I can’t have any man who’s not not welcome to her, to put it plainly causing any annoyance to my ward. I repeat, Bryce, you must see it. I have nothing to do with what you see,” answered Bryce. Your opinions are not mine and mine aren’t yours. You’re really turning me away as if I were a dishonest foreman because in my opinion it would be a very excellent thing for her and for myself if Miss Bury would consent to marry me. That’s the plain truth. Ransford allowed himself to take a long and steady look at Bryce. The thing was done now, and his dismissed assistant seemed to be taking it quietly, and Ransford’s curiosity was aroused. I can’t make you out, he exclaimed. I don’t know whether you’re the most cynical young man I ever met or whether you’re the most obtuse. Not the last, anyway, interrupted Bryce. I assure you of that. Can’t you see for yourself then, man, that the girl doesn’t want you? Said Ransford. Hang it for anything you know to the contrary. She may have might have other ideas. Bryce, who had been staring out of a side window for the last minute or two, suddenly laughed and, lifting a hand, pointed into the garden, and Ransford turned and saw Mary Bury walking there with a tall lad, whom he recognized as one Sackville Bonham, stepson of Mr. Foliot, a wealthy resident of the close. The two young people were laughing and chatting together with evident great friendliness. Perhaps, remarked Bryce quietly, her ideas run in that direction. In which case, Dr. Ransford, you’ll have trouble, for Mrs. Foliot, mother of Yandallow Youth, who’s the apple of her eye, is one of the inquisitive ladies of whom I’ve just told you. And if her son unites himself with anybody, she’ll want to know exactly who that anybody is. You’d far better have supported me as an aspirant. However, I suppose there’s no more to say. Nothing,” answered Ransford, “except to say good day and goodbye to you. You needn’t remain. I’ll see to everything, and I’m going out now. I think you’d better not exchange any farewells with anyone.” Bryce nodded silently, and Ransford, picking up his hat and gloves, left the surgery by the side door. A moment later, Bryce saw him crossing the clothes. Chapter St. Reth’s stare. The summary dismissed assistant, thus left alone, stood for a moment in evident deep thought before he moved towards Ransford’s desk and picked up the check. He looked at it carefully, folded it neatly, and put it away in his pocketbook. After that, he proceeded to collect a few possessions of his own, instruments, books from various drawers and shelves. He was placing these things in a small handbag when a gentle tap sounded on the door by which patients approached the surgery. “Come in,” he called. There was no response, although the door was slightly a jar. Instead, the knock was repeated, and at that, Bryce crossed the room and flung the door open. A man stood outside, an elderly, slightfigured, quiet-l lookinging man, who looked at Bryce with a half-deprecating, half- nervous air. The air of a man who was shy in manner, and evidently fearful of seeming to intrude. “Bryce’s quick, observant eyes took him in at a glance, noting a much worn and lined face, thin gray hair, and tired eyes. “This was a man,” he said to himself, who had seen trouble. Nevertheless, not a poor man, if his general appearance was anything to go by, he was well and even expensively dressed in the style generally affected by well to do merchants and city men. His clothes were fashionably cut, his silk hat was new, his linen and boots irreroable, a fine diamond pin gleamed in his carefully arranged crevat. Why then this unmistakably fertive and half- frightened manner which seemed to be somewhat relieved at the sight of Bryce. Is this is Dr. Ransford within? Asked the stranger. I was told this is his house. Dr. Ransford is out, replied Bryce. Just gone out not 5 minutes ago. This is his surgery. Can I be of use? The man hesitated, looking beyond Bryce into the room. Oh, thank you, he said at last. I know. I don’t want professional services. I just called to see Dr. Ransford. He The fact is I once knew someone of that name. It’s no matter at present. Bryce stepped outside and pointed across the close. Dr. Ransford, he said, went over there. I rather fancy he’s gone to the dinery. He has a case there. If you went through paradise, you’d very likely meet him coming back. The dinery is the big house in the far corner. Yonder. The stranger followed Bryce’s outstretched finger. “Paradise,” he said wonderingly. “What’s that?” Bryce pointed to a long stretch of gray wall which projected from the south wall of the cathedral into the close. “It’s an enclosure between the south porch and the transcept,” he said. “Full of old tombs and trees, a sort of wilderness. Why called paradise? I don’t know. There’s a shortcut across it to the dinery and that part of the close through that archway you see over there. If you go across, you’re almost sure to meet Dr. Ransford. I’m much obliged to you, said the stranger. Thank you. He turned away in the direction which Bryce had indicated, and Bryce went back, only to go out again and call after him. If you don’t meet him, shall I say you’ll call again? He asked. And what name? The stranger shook his head. It’s immaterial, he answered. I’ll see him somewhere or later. Many thanks. He went on his way towards paradise and Bryce returned to the surgery and completed his preparations for departure. And in the course of things he more than once looked through the window into the garden and saw Mary Burie still walking and talking with young Sackville Bonham. No, he muttered to himself. I won’t trouble to exchange any farewells, not because of Ransford’s hint, but because there’s no need. If Ransford thinks he’s going to drive me out of Rochester before I choose to go, he’s badly mistaken. It’ll be time enough to say farewell when I take my departure. And that won’t be just yet. Now I wonder who that old chap was. Knew someone of Ransford’s name once, did he? Probably Ransford himself, in which case he knows more of Ransford than anybody in Rochester knows. For nobody in Rochester knows anything beyond a few years back. No, Dr. answered. No farewells to anybody, a mere departure till I turn up again. But Bryce was not to get away from the old house without something in the nature of a farewell. As he walked out of the surgery by the side entrance, Mary Bury, who had just parted from young Bonum in the garden, and was about to visit her dogs in the stable, came along. She and Bryce met face to face. The girl flushed, not so much from embarrassment as from vexation. Bryce, cool as ever, showed no sign of any embarrassment. Instead, he laughed, tapping the handbag which he carried under one arm. Sumerily turned out as if I’d been stealing the spoons, he remarked. I go with my small belongings. This is my first reward for devotion. I have nothing to say to you, answered Mary, sweeping by him with a highly displeased glance. Except that you have brought it on yourself. A very feminine retort, observed Bryce. But there is no malice in it. Your anger won’t last more than, shall we say, a day. You may say what you like, she replied. As I just said, I have nothing to say now or at any time. That remains to be proved, remarked Bryce. The phrase is one of much elasticity. But for the present I go. He walked out into the close and without as much as a backward look struck off across the sward in the direction in which 10 minutes before he had sent the strange man. He had rooms in a quiet lane on the farther side of the cathedral precinct. And his present intention was to go to them to leave his bag and make some further arrangements. He had no idea of leaving Rochester. he knew of another doctor in the city who was badly in need of help. He would go to him, would tell him, if need be, why he had left Ransford. He had a multiplicity of schemes and ideas in his head, and he began to consider some of them as he stepped out of the close into the ancient enclosure which all right folk knew by its time-honored name of paradise. This was really an outer court of the old closters. Its high walls, half ruinous, almost wholly covered with ivy, shut in an expanse of turf, liberally furnished with U and Cyprus, and studded with tombs and gravestones. In one corner rose a gigantic elm. In another, a broken stairway of stone led to a doorway set high in the walls of the nave. Across the enclosure itself was a pathway which led towards the houses in the southeast corner of the clothes. It was a curious gloomy spot, little frequented saved by people who went across it rather than follow the graveled paths outside, and it was untenanted when Bryce stepped into it. But just as he walked through the archway, he saw Ransford. Ransford was emerging hastily from a post door in the west porch, so hastily that Bryce checked himself to look at him. And though they were 20 yards apart, Bryce saw that Ransford’s face was very pale, almost a whiteness, and that he was unmistakably agitated. Instantly he connected that agitation with the man who had come to the surgery door. “They’ve met,” mused Bryce, and stopped, staring after Ransford’s retreating figure. Now, what is it in that man’s mere presence that’s upset Ransford? He looks like a man who’s had a nasty unexpected shock abadon. He remains standing in the archway, gazing after the retreating figure, until Ransford had disappeared within his own garden, still wondering and speculating, but not about his own affairs. He turned across paradise at last, and made his way towards the farther corner. There was a little wicked gate there, set in the ivid wall. As Bryce opened it, a man in the working dress of a stonemason, whom he recognized as being one of the master mason’s staff, came running out of the bushes. His face, too, was white, and his eyes were big with excitement, and recognizing Bryce. He halted, panting. “What is it, Vanna?” asked Bryce calmly. “Something happened.” The man swept his hand across his forehead as if he were dazed, and then jerked his thumb over his shoulder. A man, he gasped. Foot of St. Ryther’s stare there, doctor, dead or if not dead, near it. I saw it. Bryce seized Vanna’s arm and gave it a shake. You saw what? He demanded. Saw him fall, or rather flung, panted Vanna. Somebody couldn’t see who know how flung him right through yond doorway up there. He fell right over the steps crash. Bryce looked over the tops of the U’s and Cypresses at the doorway in the claristory to which Vanna pointed a low open archway gained by the half ruinous stair. It was 40 ft at least from the ground. You saw him thrown he exclaimed. Thrown down there impossible man. Tell you I saw it asserted Vanna doggedly. I was looking at one of those old tombs yonder. Somebody wants some repairs doing and the jack doors were making such a to-do up there by the roof. I glanced up at them and I saw this man thrown through that door fairly flung through it. God, do you think I could mistake my own eyes? Did you see who flung him? asked Bryce. No, I saw a hand just for one second, as it might be by the edge of the doorway, answered Vanna. I was more for watching him. He sort of tottered for a second on the step outside the door, turned over and screamed, “I can hear it now,” and crashed down on the flags beneath. “How long since?” demanded Bryce. “5 or 6 minutes,” said Vanna. I rushed to him. I’ve been doing what I could, but I saw it was no good. So, I was running for help. Bryce pushed him towards the bushes by which they were standing. “Take me to him,” he said. “Come on.” Vner turned back, making a way through the cypresses. He led Bryce to the foot of the great wall of the nave. There, in the corner, formed by the angle of nave and transep, on a broad pavement of flagstones, lay the body of a man crumpled up in a curiously twisted position, and with one glance, even before he reached it, Bryce knew what body it was, that of the man who had come shily and fertively to Ransford’s door. “Look!” exclaimed Vanna, suddenly pointing. He’s stirring. Bryce, whose gaze was fastened on the twisted figure, saw a slight movement which relaxed as suddenly as it had occurred. Then came stillness. That’s the end, he muttered. The man’s dead. I’ll guarantee that before I put a hand on him. Dead enough, he went on as he reached the body and dropped on one knee by it. His neck’s broken. The mason bent down and looked half curiously, half fearfully at the dead man. Then he glanced upward at the open door high above them in the walls. “It’s a fearful drop that, sir,” he said. “And he came down with such violence.” “You’re sure it’s over with him.” “He died just as we came up,” answered Bryce. “That movement we saw was the last effort, involuntary, of course. Look here, Vanna. You’ll have to get help. You’d better fetch some of the cathedral people, some of the vurges. No. He broke off suddenly as the low strains of an organ came from within the great building. They’re just beginning the morning service. Of course, it’s 10:00. Never mind them. Go straight to the police. Bring them back. I’ll stay here. The mason turned off towards the gateway of the clothes. And while the strains of the organ grew louder, Bryce bent over the dead man, wondering what had really happened. thrown from an open doorway in the claristory over St. Ryther’s stair, it seemed almost impossible, but a sudden thought struck him, supposing two men wishing to talk in privacy unobserved, had gone up into the claristry of the cathedral, as they easily could by more than one door, by more than one stare, and supposing they had quarreled, and one of them had flung or pushed the other through the door above. What then? And on the heels of that thought, hurried another, this man, now lying dead, had come to the surgery, seeking Ransford, and had subsequently gone away, presumably in search of him, and Bryce himself had just seen Ransford, obviously agitated and pale of cheek, leaving the west porch. What did it all mean? What was the apparently obvious inference to be drawn? Here was the stranger dead, and Vanna was ready to swear that he had seen him thrown flung violently through the door 40 ft above. That was murder. Then who was the murderer? Bryce looked carefully and narrowly around him now that Vanna had gone away. There was not a human being in sight, nor anywhere near, so far as he knew. On one side of him and the dead man rose the gray walls of Nave and Transept. On the other, the cypresses and u rising amongst the old tombs and monuments, assuring himself that no one was near, no eye watching, he slipped his hand into the inner breast pocket of the dead man’s smart morning coat. Such a man must carry papers papers would reveal something, and Bryce wanted to know anything, anything that would give information, and let him into whatever secret there might be between this unlucky stranger and Bransford. But the breast pocket was empty. There was no pocket book there. There were no papers there. Nor were there any papers elsewhere in the other pockets which he hastily searched. There was not even a card with a name on it. But he found a purse full of money banknotes, gold, silver, and in one of its compartments a scrap of paper folded curiously. After the fashion of the cocked hat missives of another age, in which envelopes had not been invented, Bryce hurriedly unfolded this, and after one glance at its contents, made haste to secrete it in his own pocket. He had only just done this, and put back the purse, when he heard Vanna’s voice, and a second later the voice of Inspector Mitch, a well-known police official. And at that Bryce sprang to his feet, and when the mason and his companions emerged from the bushes, was standing, looking thoughtfully at the dead man. He turned to Mitchton with a shake of the head. “Dead,” he said in a hushed voice. “Died as we got to him, broken all to pieces, I should say, neck and spine, certainly. I suppose Van has told you what he saw. Mitch, a sharpeyed, dark complexioned man quick of movement, nodded and after one glance at the body, looked up at the open doorway high above them. That the door? He asked, turning to Vanna. And it was open. It’s always open, answered Vanna. Least ways it’s been open like that all this spring to my knowledge. What is there behind it? Inquired Mitch. sort of gallery that runs all around the nave, replied Vanna. Claristry gallery, that’s what it is. People can go up there and walk around. Lots of them do tourists, you know. There’s two or three ways up to it staircases in the turrets. Mitch turned to one of the two constables who had followed him. Let Vanna show you the way up there, he said. Go quietly. Don’t make any fusss. The morning service is just beginning. Say nothing to anybody. Just take a quiet look around along that gallery, especially near the door there, and come back here. He looked down at the dead man again, as the mason and the constable went away. A stranger, I should think, Dr. Tourist, most likely, but thrown down. That man Vanna is positive. That looks like foul play. Oh, there’s no doubt of that, asserted Bryce. You’ll have to go into that pretty deeply. But the inside of the cathedral is like a rabbit warren. And whoever threw the man through that doorway no doubt knew how to slip away unobserved. Now you’ll have to remove the body to the morttery, of course, but just let me fetch Dr. Ransford first. I’d like some other medical man than myself to see him before he’s moved. I’ll have him here in 5 minutes. He turned away through the bushes, and emerging upon the close, ran across the lawns in the direction of the house, which he had left not 20 minutes before. He had but one idea as he ran. He wanted to see Ransford face to face with the dead man, wanted to watch him, to observe him, to see how he looked, how he behaved. Then he, Bryce, would know something. But he was to know something before that. He opened the door of the surgery suddenly, but with his usual quietness of touch, and on the threshold he paused. Ransford, the very picture of despair, stood just within, his face convulsed, beating one hand upon the other. Chapter 4. The room at the miter. In the few seconds which elapsed before Ransford recognized Bryce’s presence, Bryce took a careful, if swift, observation of his late employer, that Ransford was visibly upset by something was plain enough to see. His face was still pale. He was muttering to himself. One clenched fist was pounding the open palm of the other hand altogether. He looked like a man who was suddenly confronted with some fearful difficulty. And when Bryce, having looked long enough to satisfy his wishes, coughed gently, he started in such a fashion as to suggest that his nerves had become unstrung. “What is it? What are you doing there?” he demanded almost fiercely. “What do you mean by coming in like that?” Bryce affected to have seen nothing. “I came to fetch you,” he answered. “There’s been an accident in Paradise, man fallen from that door at the head of St. Rether’s stair. I wish you’d come, but I may as well tell you that he’s past help. Dead. Dead? A man? Exclaimed Ransford. What man? A workman? Bryce had already made up his mind about telling Ransford of the stranger’s call at the surgery. He would say nothing at that time. At any rate, it was improbable that anyone but himself knew of the call. The side entrance to the surgery was screened from the close by a shrubbery. It was very unlikely that any passer by had seen the man call or go away. No, he would keep his knowledge secret until it could be made better use of. Not a workman, not a townsman, a stranger, he answered. Looks like a wellto-do tourist, a slightly built elderly man gay-haired. Ransford, who had turned to his desk to master himself, looked round with a sudden, sharp glance, and for the moment Bryce was taken aback, for he had condemned Ransford. And yet that glance was one of apparently genuine surprise, a glance which almost convinced him against his will against only two evident facts. That Ransford was hearing of the Paradise affair for the first time. “An elderly man, gay-haired, slightly built,” said Ransford. dark clothed silk hat. Precisely, replied Bryce, who was now considerably astonished. Do you know him? I saw such a man entering the cathedral a while ago, answered Ransford. A stranger, certainly. Come along, then. He had fully recovered his self-possession by that time, and he led the way from the surgery and across the close as if he were going on an ordinary professional visit. He kept silence as they walked rapidly towards Paradise, and Bryce was silent, too. He had studied Ransford a good deal during their two years acquaintance, and he knew Ransford’s power of repressing and commanding his feelings and concealing his thoughts. And now he decided that the look and start which he had at first taken to be of the nature of genuine astonishment were cunningly assumed and he was not surprised when having reached the group of men gathered around the body. Ransford showed nothing but professional interest. “Have you done anything towards finding out who this unfortunate man is?” asked Ransford after a brief examination as he turned to Mitchton. evidently a stranger, but he probably has papers on him. “There’s nothing on him except a purse with plenty of money in it,” answered Missington. “I’ve been through his pockets myself. There isn’t a scrap of paper, not even as much as an old letter, but he’s evidently a tourist or something of the sort, and so he’ll probably have stayed in the city all night, and I’m going to inquire at the hotels. There’ll be an inquest, of course,” remarked Ransford mechanically. Well, we can do nothing, Mitch. You’d better have the body removed to the morttery. He turned and looked up the broken stairway at the foot of which they were standing. “You say he fell down that?” he asked. “Whatever was he doing up there?” Mitch looked at Bryce. “Haven’t you told Dr. Ransford how it was?” he asked. “No,” answered Bryce. He glanced at Ransford, indicating Vanna, who had come back with the constable, and was standing by. He didn’t fall. He went on watching Ransford narrowly. He was violently flung out of that doorway. Vanna here saw it. Ransford’s cheek flushed and he was unable to repress a slight start. He looked at the mason. You actually saw it? He exclaimed. “Why? What did you see?” “Him,” answered Vanna, nodding at the dead man. “Flung head and heels clean through that doorway up there. Hadn’t a chance to save himself. if he hadn’t just grabbed at nothing and came down. Give a year’s wages if I hadn’t seen it and heard him scream. Ransford was watching Vanna with a set concentrated look. Who flung him? He asked suddenly you say you saw. I, sir, but not as much as all that, replied the mason. I just saw a hand and that was all. But he added, turning to the police with a knowing look, there’s one thing I can swear to, it was a gentleman’s hand. I saw the white shirt cuff and a bit of a black sleeve. Ransford turned away, but he just as suddenly turned back to the inspector. You’ll have to let the cathedral authorities know, Mitch, he said. Better get the body removed, though, first do it now before the morning service is over, and let me hear what you find out about his identity, if you can discover anything in the city.” He went away, then without another word or a further glance at the dead man. But Bryce had already assured himself of what he was certain was a fact, that a look of unmistakable relief had swept across Ransford’s face for the fraction of a second when he knew that there were no papers on the dead man. He himself waited after Ransford had gone, waited until the police had fetched a stretcher, when he personally superintended the removal of the body to the morttery outside the close. And there a constable who had come over from the police station gave a faint hint as to further investigation. “I saw that poor gentleman last night, sir,” he said to the inspector. “He was standing at the door of the miter talking to another gentleman, a talish man.” “Then I’ll go across there,” said Mitchton. “Come with me if you like, Dr. Bryce.” This was precisely what Bryce desired. He was already anxious to acquire all the information he could get, and he walked over the way with the inspector to the quaint old world inn, which filled almost one side of the little square known as Monday Market, and in at the courtyard, where, looking out of the bow window, which had served as an outer bar in the coaching days, they found the landlady of the miter, Mrs. Partingley, Bryce saw at once that she had heard the news. “What’s this, Mr. Mitchton?” she demanded as they drew near across the cobble paved yard. “Somebody’s been in to say there’s been an accident to a gentleman, a stranger. I hope it isn’t one of the two we’ve got in the house.” “I should say it is, ma’am,” answered the inspector. “He was seen outside here last night by one of our men.” “Anyway,” the landlady uttered an expression of distress, and opening a side door, motioned them to step into her parlor. “Which of them is it?” she asked anxiously. There’s two came together last night. They did a tall one and a short one. Dear, dear me. Is it a bad accident now, Inspector? The man’s dead, ma’am, replied Mitch grimly. And we want to know who he is. Have you got his name and the other gentleman’s? Mrs. partingly uttered another exclamation of distress and astonishment, lifting her plump hands in horror, but her business faculties remained alive, and she made haste to produce a big visitor’s book, and to spread it open before her callers. “There it is,” she said, pointing to the two last entries. “That’s the short gentleman’s name, Mr. John Braden, London. And that’s the tall ones, Mr. Christopher Delingham, also London.” tourists. Of course, we’ve never seen either of them before. Came together, you say, Mrs. Partingley? asked Mitchton. When was that now? Just before dinner last night, answered the landlady. They’d evidently come in by the London train that gets in at 6:40, as you know. They came here together, and they dinner together and spent the evening together. Of course, we took them for friends, but they didn’t go out together this morning, though they’d breakfast together. After breakfast, Mr. Delingham asked me the way to the old man, and he went off there, so I concluded. Mr. Braden, he hung about a bit, studying a local directory I’d lent him, and after a while he asked me if he could hire a trap to take him out to Saxonstead this afternoon. Of course, I said he could, and he arranged for it to be ready at 2:30. Then he went out and across the market towards the cathedral. And that, concluded Mrs. partingly is about all I know, gentlemen. Saxon stared eh, remarked. Did he say anything about his reasons for going there? Well, yes, he did, replied the landlady, for he asked me if I thought he’d be likely to find the Duke at home at that time of day. I said I knew his grace was at Saxonstead just now, and that I should think the middle of the afternoon would be a good time. He didn’t tell you his business with the Duke, asked Mitchon. Not a word, said the landlady. Oh no, just that and no more. But here’s Mr. Delingham. Bryce turned to see a tall, broadshouldered, bearded man pass the window. The door opened, and he walked in to glance inquisitively at the inspector. He turned at once to Mrs. Partingley. I hear there’s been an accident to that gentleman I came in with last night, he said. Is it anything serious? Your oller says, “These gentlemen have just come about it, sir,” answered the landlady. She glanced at Mitchton. “Perhaps you’ll tell,” she began. “Was he a friend of yours, sir?” asked Mitchton. “A personal friend. Never saw him in my life before last night,” replied the tall man. “We just chanced to meet in the train coming down from London. Got talking and discovered we were both coming to the same place, Rochester. So, we came to this house together. No, no friend of mine, not even an acquaintance previous, of course, to last night. Is is it anything serious? He’s dead, sir, replied. And now we want to know who he is. God bless my soul. Dead. You don’t say so, exclaimed Mr. Delingham. Dear, dear. Well, I can’t help you. Don’t know him from Adam. Pleasant, well-informed man. seemed to have traveled a great deal in foreign countries. “I can tell you this much, though,” he went on, as if a sudden recollection had come to him. “I gathered that he’d only just arrived in England. In fact, now I come to think of it,” he said as much. Made some remark in the train about the pleasantness of the English landscape. Don’t you know, I got an idea that he’d recently come from some country where trees and hedges and green fields aren’t much in evidence. But if you want to know who he is, officer, why don’t you search him? He’s sure to have papers, cards, and so on about him. We have searched him, answered Mitchon, there isn’t a paper, a letter, or even a visiting card on him. Mr. Delingham looked at the landl. Bless me, he said. Remarkable. But he’d a suitcase or something of the sort something light which he carried up from the railway station himself. Perhaps in that I should like to see whatever he had, said Mitchington. We’d better examine his room, Mrs. Partingley. Bryce presently followed the landlady and the inspector upstairs. Mr. Delingham followed him. All four went into a bedroom which looked out on Monday market, and there on a side table lay a small leather suitcase, one which could easily be carried, with its upper half thrown open and back against the wall behind. the land lady, Mr. Delingham and Bryce, stood silently by, while the inspector examined the contents of this. The only piece of luggage in the room. There was very little to see what toilet articles the visitor brought were spread out on the dressing table. Brushes, combs, a case of razors, and the like, and Mitch nodded sidewise at them as he began to take the articles out of the suitcase. “There’s one thing strikes me at once,” he said. I dare say you gentlemen notice it. All these things are new. This suitcase hasn’t been in use very long. See, the leather’s almost unworn, and those things on the dressing table are new. And what there is here looks new, too. There’s not much, you see. He evidently had no intention of a long stop. An extra pair of trousers, some shirts, socks, collars, neck ties, slippers, handkerchiefs. That’s about all. and the first thing to do is to see if the linens marked with name or initials. He deafly examined the various articles as he took them out and in the end shook his head. No name, no initials, he said. But look here. Do you see, gentlemen, where these collars were bought? Half a dozen of them in a box. Paris. There you are. The seller’s name inside the collar. Just as in England. Aristed Pujour 82. Rude de capucines. And judging by the look of them, I should say these shirts were bought there, too, and the handkerchiefs and the neckwear, they all have a foreign look. There may be a clue in that we might trace him in France if we can’t in England. Perhaps he is a Frenchman. I’ll take my oath he isn’t, exclaimed Mr. Delingham. However long he’d been out of England, he hadn’t lost a North Country accent. He was some sort of a North Countryman. Yorkshire or Lanasher. I’ll go Bale. No Frenchman, officer, not he. Well, there’s no papers here anyway, said Mitch, who had now emptied the suitcase. Nothing to show who he was. Nothing here, you see, in the way of paper, but this old book. What is it? History of Barthorp. He showed me that in the train, remarked Mr. Delingham. I’m interested in antiquities and archaeology, and anybody who’s long in my society finds it out. We got talking of such things. and he pulled out that book and told me with great pride that he’d picked it up from a book barrow in the street somewhere in London for 1 and six. I think he added musingly that what attracted him in it was the old calf binding and the steel frontest piece. I’m sure he’d no great knowledge of antiquities. Mitchon laid the book down, and Bryce picked it up, examined the title page, and made a mental note of the fact that Barthorp was a market town in the Midlands. And it was on the tip of his tongue to say that if the dead man had no particular interest in antiquities and archaeology, it was somewhat strange that he should have bought a book which was mainly antiquarian, and that it might be that he had so bought it because of a connection between Barthorp and himself. But he remembered that it was his own policy to keep pertinent facts for his own private consideration. So he said nothing, and Mitchon presently remarking that there was no more to be done there, and ascertaining from Mr. Delingham that it was his intention to remain in Rochester for, at any rate a few days, they went downstairs again, and Bryce and the inspector crossed over to the police station. The news had spread through the heart of the city and at the police station doors a crowd had gathered. Just inside two or three principal citizens were talking to the superintendent. Amongst them was Mr. Steven Folott, the stepfather of young Bonham, a big heavy-faced man who had been a resident in the clothes for some years, was known to be of great wealth and had a reputation as a grower of rare roses. He was telling the superintendent something and the superintendent beckoned to Mitchton. Mr. Foliot says he saw this gentleman in the cathedral. He said, “Can’t have been so very long before the accident happened, Mr. Foliott, from what you say.” As near as I can reckon it would be 5 minutes to 10, answered Mr. Foliott. I put it at that because I’d gone in for the morning service which is at 10:00. I saw him go up the inside stair to the Claristry Gallery. He was looking about him. 5 minutes to 10, and it must have happened immediately afterwards. Bryce heard this and turned away, making a calculation for himself. It had been on the stroke of 10 when he saw Ransford hurrying out of the west porch. There was a stairway from the gallery down to that west porch. What then was the inference? But for the moment he drew none, instead he went home to his rooms in Friary Lane, and shutting himself up, drew from his pocket the scrap of paper he had taken from the dead man. Chapter the scrap of paper. When Bryce, in his locked room, drew that bit of paper from his pocket, it was with the conviction that in it he held a clue to the secret of the morning’s adventure. He had only taken a mere glance at it, as he withdrew it from the dead man’s purse, but he had seen enough of what was written on it to make him certain that it was a document, if such a mere fragment could be called a document of no ordinary importance. And now he unfolded and laid it flat on his table and looked at it carefully, asking himself what was the real meaning of what he saw. There was not much to see. The scrap of paper itself was evidently a quarter of a leaf of old-fashioned stoutish note paper, somewhat yellow with age, and bearing evidence of having been folded and kept flat in the dead man’s purse for some time. The creases were well-defined. The edges were worn and slightly stained by long rubbing against the leather. And in its center were a few words, or rather abbreviations of words in Latin, and some figures in parah, riceestra, jx, tum, rick, jenk, xcap, x i xv. Bryce at first sight took them to be a copy of some inscription, but his knowledge of Latin told him a moment later that instead of being an inscription, it was a direction, and a very plain direction, too. He read it easily. in paradise at Rochester next to or near the tomb of Richard Jenkins or possibly Jeninson from or behind the head 2315 in most likely. There was no doubt that there was the meaning of the words. What now was it that lay behind the tomb of Richard Jenkins or Jenkinson in Rochester Paradise? in all probability 23 in from the head stone and 15 in beneath the surface. That was a question which Bryce immediately resolved to find a satisfactory answer to. In the meantime, there were other questions which he sat down in order on his mental tablets. They were these one. Who really was the man who had registered at the miter under the name of John Braden? Why did he wish to make a personal call on the Duke of Saxonstead? Was he some man who had known Ransford in time past and whom Ransford had no desire to meet again? Four, did Ransford meet him in the cathedral? Five, was it Ransford who flung him to his death down St. Ryther’s stair? Six, was that the real reason of the agitation in which he, Bryce, had found Ransford a few moments after the discovery of the body? There was plenty of time before him for the due solution of these mysteries, reflected Bryce, and for solving another problem which might possibly have some relationship to them, that of the exact connection between Ransford and his two wards. Bryce, in telling Ransford that morning of what was being said amongst the tea table circles of the old cathedral city, had purposely only told him half a tale. He knew and had known for months that the society of the close was greatly exercised over the position of the Ransford Minaj. Ransford, a bachelor, a wellpreserved, active, alert man who was certainly of no more than middle age and did not look his years, had come to Rochester only a few years previously, and had never shown any signs of forsaking his single state. No one had ever heard him mention his family or relations. Then suddenly, without warning, he had brought into his house Mary Buri, a handsome young woman of 19, who was said to have only just left school, and her brother Richard, then a boy of 16, who had certainly been at a public school of repute, and was entered at the famous Dean School of Rochester as soon as he came to his new home. Dr. Ransford spoke of these two as his wards. Without further explanation, the Society of the Clothes was beginning to want much more explanation. Who were they, these two young people? Was Dr. Ransford their uncle, their cousin? What was he to them? In any case, in the opinion of the elderly ladies who set the tone of society in Rochester, Miss Bury was much too young and far too pretty to be left without a chaperon. But up to then, no one had dared to say as much to Dr. Ransford. Instead, everybody said it freely behind his back. Bryce had used eyes and ears in relation to the two young people. He had been with Ransford a year when they arrived. Admitted freely to their company, he had soon discovered that whatever relationship existed between them and Ransford, they had none with anybody else that they knew of. No letters came for them from uncles, aunts, cousins, grandfathers, grandmothers. They appeared to have no memories or reminiscences of relatives, nor a father or mother. There was a curious atmosphere of isolation about them. They had plenty of talk about what might be called their present, their recent school days, their youthful experiences, games, pursuits, but none of what under any circumstances could have been a very faristant past. Bryce’s quick and attentive ears discovered things, for instance, that for many years past Ransford had been in the habit of spending his annual two-month holiday with these two year after year. At any rate, since the boy’s 10th year, he had taken them traveling, Bryce heard scraps of reminiscences of tours in France, and in Switzerland, and in Ireland, and in Scotland, even as far a field as the far north of Norway. It was easy to see that both boy and girl had a mighty veneration for Ransford, just as easy to see that Ransford took infinite pains to make life something more than happy and comfortable for both. And Bryce, who was one of those men who firmly believed that no man ever does anything for nothing, and that self-interest is the main spring of life, asked himself over and over again the question which agitated the ladies of the close, “Who are these two? and what is the bond between them and this sort of fairy godfather guardian? And now, as he put away the scrap of paper in a safely locked desk, Bryce asked himself another question, had the events of that morning anything to do with the mystery which hung around Dr. Ransford’s wards? If it had, then all the more reason why he should solve it. For Bryce had made up his mind that by hook or by crook, he would marry Mary Bury. And he was only too eager to lay hands on anything that would help him to achieve that ambition. If he could only get Ransfford into his power, if he could get Mary Bury herself into his power well and good, once he had got her, he would be good enough to her in his way. Having nothing to do, Bryce went out after a while and strolled round to the Rochester Club, an exclusive institution, the members of which were drawn from the leisured, the professional, the clerical, and the military circles of the old city. And there, as he expected, he found small groups discussing the morning’s tragedy, and he joined one of them, in which was Sackville Bonham, his presumptive rival, who was busily telling three or four other young men what his stepfather, Mr. Foliot, had to say about the event. My stepfather says, and I tell you, he saw the man, said Sackville, who was noted in Rochester circles as a loquacious and forward youth. He says that whatever happened must have happened as soon as ever the old chap got up into that claristry gallery. Look here it’s like this. My stepfather had gone in there for the morning service. Strict old churchgoer he is, you know, and he saw this stranger going up the stairway. He’s positive, Mr. Foliot, that it was then 5 minutes to 10. Now then I ask you, isn’t he right, my stepfather, when he says that it must have happened at once immediately because that man Vanna the mason says he saw the man fall before 10. What? One of the group nodded at Bryce. I should think Bryce knows what time it happened as well as anybody. He said, you were first on the spot, Bryce, weren’t you? After Vanna, answered Bryce laconically. As to the time I could fix it in this way, the organist was just beginning a voluntary or something of the sort. That means 10:00 to the minute when he was found, exclaimed Sackville triumphantly. Of course, he’d fallen a minute or two before that, which proves Mr. Foliard to be right. Now, what does that prove? Why, that the old chap’s asalent, whoever he was, dogged him along that gallery as soon as he entered, seized him when he got to the open doorway and flung him through. clear as as noonday. One of the group, a rather older man than the rest, who was leaning back in a tilted chair, hands in pockets, watching Sackville Bonham, smilingly, shook his head and laughed a little. You’re taking something for granted, Saki, my son, he said. You’re adopting the mason’s tale as true. But I don’t believe the poor man was thrown through that doorway at all. Not I. Bryce turned sharply on this speaker young Archdale, a member of a well-known firm of architects. You don’t, he exclaimed. But Vanna says he saw him thrown. Very likely, answered Archdale. But it would all happen so quickly that Vanna might easily be mistaken. I’m speaking of something I know. I know every inch of the cathedral fabric ought to, as we’re always going over it professionally. Just at that doorway, at the head of St. Ryther’s stair. The flooring of the claristry gallery is worn so smooth that it’s like a piece of glass and it slopes slopes at a very steep angle too to the doorway itself. A stranger walking along there might easily slip and if the door was open as it was, he’d be shot out and into space before he knew what was happening. This theory produced a moment silence broken at last by Sackville Bonham. Vanna says he saw saw a man’s hand, a gentleman’s hand, insisted Sackville. He saw a white shirt cuff, a bit of the sleeve of a coat. You’re not going to get over that, you know. He’s certain of it. Vanna may be as certain of it as he likes, answered Archdale almost indifferently. And still he may be mistaken. The probability is that Vanna was confused by what he saw. He may have had a white shirt cuff and the sleeve of a black coat impressed upon him as in a flash, and they were probably those of the man who was killed. If, as I suggest, the man slipped and was shot out of that open doorway, he would execute some violent and curious movements in the effort to save himself in which his arms would play an important part. For one thing, he would certainly throw out an arm to clutch at anything. That’s what Vanna most probably saw. There’s no evidence whatever that the man was flung down. Bryce turned away from the group of talkers to think over Archdale’s suggestion. If that suggestion had a basis of fact, it destroyed his own theory that Ransford was responsible for the stranger’s death. In that case, what was the reason of Ransford’s unmistakable agitation on leaving the west porch and of his attack equally unmistakable of nerves in the surgery? But what Archdale had said made him inquisitive, and after he had treated himself in celebration of his freedom to an unusually good lunch at the club, he went round to the cathedral to make a personal inspection of the gallery in the clery. There was a stairway to that gallery in the corner of the south transcept and Bryce made straight for it only to find a policeman there who pointed to a placard on the turret door closed doctor by order of the dean and chapter he announced till further orders the fact was sir he went on confidentially after the news got out so many people came crowding in here and up to that gallery that the dean ordered all the entrances to be shut up at once nobody’s been allowed up since noon. I suppose you haven’t heard anything of any strange person being seen lurking about up there this morning,” asked Bryce. “No, sir. But I’ve had a bit of a talk with some of the vurges,” replied the policeman. “And they say it’s a most extraordinary thing that none of them ever saw this strange gentleman go up there, nor even heard any scuffle. They say the vir that they were all about at the time getting ready for the morning service, and they neither saw nor heard. Odd, sir, ain’t it? The whole thing’s odd, agreed Bryce, and left the cathedral. He walked round to the wicked gate, which admitted to that side of paradise to find another policeman posted there. “What is this closed, too?” he asked. “And time, sir,” said the man. They’d have broken down all the shrubs in the place if orders hadn’t been given. They were mad to see where the gentleman felt came in crowds at dinnertime. Bryce nodded and was turning away when Dick Bury came round a corner from the dinery walk, evidently keenly excited. With him was a girl of about his own age, a certain characterful young lady whom Bryce knew as Betty, daughter of the librarian to the dean and chapter and therefore custodian of one of the most famous cathedral libraries in the country. She too was apparently brimming with excitement, and her pretty and vivacious face puckered itself into a frown as the policeman smiled and shook his head. “Oh, I say, what’s that for?” exclaimed Dick Bury. “Shut up! What a lot of rot, I say! Can’t you let us go in just for a minute? Not for a pension, sir,” answered the policeman good-naturedly. “Don’t you see the notice? The dean have me out of the force by tomorrow if I disobeyed orders.” No admittance, nohere, no how. But Lord, bless you, he added, glancing at the two young people. There’s nothing to see, nothing. As Dr. Bryce there can tell you, Dick, who knew nothing of the recent passages between his guardian and the dismissed assistant, glanced at Bryce with interest. You were on the spot first, weren’t you? He asked. Do you think it really was murder? I don’t know what it was, answered Bryce. And I wasn’t first on the spot. That was Vanna, the mason, he called me. He turned from the lad to glance at the girl who was peeping curiously over the gate into the U’s and cypresses. Do you think your father’s at the library just now? He asked. Shall I find him there? I should think he is, answered Betty Camp. He generally goes down about this time. She turned and pulled Dick Bur’s sleeve. Let’s go up in the claristry, she said. We can see that anyway. Also closed, miss, said the policeman, shaking his head. No admittance there neither. The public firmly warned off, so to speak. I won’t have the cathedral turned into a peep show. That’s precisely what I heard the dean say with my own ears. So closed. The boy and the girl turned away and went off across the close, and the policeman looked after them and laughed. lively young couple that sir,” he said. “What they call healthy curiosity, I suppose. Plenty of that knocking around in the city today.” Bryce, who had half turned in the direction of the library at the other side of the close, turned round again. “Do you know if your people are doing anything about identifying the dead man?” he asked. “Did you hear anything at noon?” “Nothing, but that there’ll be inquiries through the newspapers, sir,” replied the policeman. That’s the shest way of finding something out. And I did hear Inspector Mitch say that they’d have to ask the Duke if he knew anything about the poor man. I suppose he’d let fall something about wanting to go over to Saxonstead. Bryce went off in the direction of the library thinking the newspapers. Yes, no better channel for spreading the news. If Mr. John Braden had relations and friends, they would learn of his sad death through the newspapers and would come forward. And in that case, but it wouldn’t surprise me, mused Bryce, if the name given at the miter is an assumed name. I wonder if that theory of Archdales is a correct one. However, there’ll be more of that at the inquest tomorrow. And in the meantime, let me find out something about the tomb of Richard Jenkins or Jenkinson, whoever he was. The famous library of the dean and chapter of Rochester was housed in an ancient picturesque building in one corner of the close wherein day in and day out amidst priceless volumes and manuscripts huge folios and weighty quarttos old prints and relics of the medieval ages. Ambrose company, the librarian, was pretty nearly always to be found, ready to show his treasures to the visitors and tourists who came from all parts of the world to see a collection well known to biblophiles. And Ambrose Campony, a cheery-faced middle-aged man with book lover and antiquaryy written all over him, shockheaded, blue spectacled, was there now talking to an old man whom Bryce knew as a neighbor of his in Friy Lane one, Simpson Barker, a quiet, meditative old fellow believed to be a retired tradesman who spent his time in gentle pottering about the city. Bryce, as he entered, caught what company was just then saying. The most important thing I’ve heard about it, said Company, is that book they found in the man’s suitcase at the miter. I’m not a detective, but there’s a clue. Chapter 6 by Misadventure. Old Simpson Harker, who sat near the librarian’s table, his hands folded on the crook of his stout walking stick, glanced out of a pair of unusually shrewd and bright eyes at Bryce as he crossed the room and approached the pair of gossipers. “I think the doctor was there when that book you’re speaking of was found,” he remarked. “So I understood from Mitchton.” “Yes, I was there,” said Bryce, who was not unwilling to join in the talk. He turned to Campany. “What makes you think there’s a clue in that?” he asked. “Why this?” answered the librarian. “Here’s a man in possession of an old history of Barorp. Barthorp is a small market town in the Midlands Leershure, I believe, of no particular importance that I know of, but doubtless with a story of its own. Why should anyone but a Barthorp man, past or present, be interested in that story so far as to carry an old account of it with him? Therefore, I conclude this stranger was a Barorp man, and it’s at Barthorp that I should make inquiries about him. Simpson Harker made no remark, and Bryce remembered what Mr. Delingham had said when the book was found. Oh, I don’t know, he replied carelessly. I don’t see that that follows. I saw the book, a curious old binding and queer old copper plates. The man may have picked it up for that reason. I’ve bought old books myself for less. All the same, retorted company. I should make inquiry at Barthorp. You’ve got to go on probabilities. The probabilities in this case are that the man was interested in the book because it dealt with his own town. Bryce turned away towards a wall on which hung a number of charts and plans of Rochester Cathedral and its precincts. It was to inspect one of these that he had come to the library. But suddenly remembering that there was a question which he could ask without exciting any suspicion or smise, he faced round again on the librarian. “Isn’t there a register of burials within the cathedral?” he inquired. “Some book in which they’re put down?” “I was looking in the memorials of Rightchester the other day, and I saw some names I want to trace.” Company lifted his quill pen and pointed to a case of big leather bound volumes in a far corner of the room. Third shelf from the bottom, doctor, he replied. You’ll see two books there. One’s the register of all burials within the cathedral itself up to date. The other’s the register of those in paradise and the closters. What names are you wanting to trace? But Bryce, affected not to hear the last question, he walked over to the place which company had indicated, and taking down the second book, carried it to an adjacent table. Camp called across the room to him. You’ll find useful indexes at the end, he said. They’re all brought up to the present time from 400 years ago. Nearly. Bryce turned to the index at the end of his book. An index written out in various styles of handwriting, and within a minute he found the name he wanted. There it was plainly before him. Richard Jenkins died March 8th, 1715, buried in paradise March 10th. He nearly laughed aloud at the ease with which he was tracing out what at first had seemed a difficult matter to investigate, but lest his task should seem too easy, he continued to turn over the leaves of the big folio, and in order to have an excuse if the librarian should ask him any further questions. He memorized some of the names which he saw, and after a while, he took the book back to its shelf and turned to the wall on which the charts and maps were hung. There was one there of paradise whereon was marked the sight and names of all the tombs and graves in that ancient enclosure. From it he hoped to ascertain the exact position and whereabouts of Richard Jenkins’s grave. But here Bryce met his first check. Down each side of the old chart dated 1850. There was a tabulated list of the tombs in Paradise. The names of families and persons were given in this list. Against each name was a number corresponding with the same number marked on the various divisions of the chart. And there was no Richard Jenkins on that list. He went over it carefully twice thrice. It was not there. Obviously, if the tomb of Richard Jenkins, who was buried in Paradise Inn, was still there amongst the cypresses and u trees, the name and inscription on it had vanished, worn away by time and weather. When that chart had been made 135 years later, and in that case, what did the memorandum mean which Bryce had found in the dead man’s purse? He turned away at last from the chart, at a loss, and Campony glanced at him. “Found what you wanted?” he asked. “Oh, yes,” replied Bryce, primed with a ready answer. “I just wanted to see where the spellbanks were buried. Quite a lot of them, I see. Southeast corner of Paradise,” said Camp. “Several tombs. I could have spared you the trouble of looking. You’re a regular encyclopedia about the place,” laughed Bryce. I suppose you know every spout and gargoyle. Ought to, answered the librarian. I’ve been fed on it man and boy for five and 40 years. Bryce made some fitting remark and went out and home to his rooms there to spend most of the ensuing evening in trying to puzzle out the various mysteries of the day. He got no more light on them then, and he was still exercising his brains on them when he went to the inquest next morning to find the coroner’s court packed to the doors with an assemblage of towns folk just as curious as he was. And as he sat there listening to the preliminaries and to the evidence of the first witnesses, his active and scheming mind figured to itself, not without much cynical amusement, how a word or two from his lips would go far to solve matters. He thought of what he might tell if he told all the truth. He thought of what he might get out of Ransford if he, Bryce, were coroner or solicitor, and had Ransfford in that witness box. He would ask him on his oath if he knew the dead man, if he had had dealings with him in times past, if he had met and spoken to him on that eventful morning, he would ask him point blank if it was not his hand that had thrown him to his death. But Bryce had no intention of making any revelations just then. As for himself, he was going to tell just as much as he pleased, and no more. And so he sat and heard and knew from what he heard that everybody there was in a hopeless fog and that in all that crowd there was but one man who had any real suspicion of the truth and that that man was himself. The evidence given in the first stages of the inquiry was all known to Bryce and to most people in the court already. Mr. Delingham told how he had met the dead man in the train journeying from London to Rochester. Mrs. partingly told how he had arrived at the miter registered in her book as Mr. John Braden and had next morning asked if he could get a conveyance for Saxonstead in the afternoon as he wished to see the Duke. Mr. Folate testified to having seen him in the cathedral going towards one of the stairways leading to the gallery. Ver most important witness of all up to that point told of what he had seen. Bryce himself followed by Ransford gave medical evidence. Mitchton told of his examination of the dead man’s clothing and effects in his room at the miter. And Mitch added the first information which was new to Bryce. “In consequence of finding the book about Barthorp in the suitcase,” said Mitchton, “we sent a long telegram yesterday to the police there, telling them what had happened and asking them to make the most careful inquiries at once about any townsmen of theirs of the name of John Braden, and to wire us the result of such inquiries.” this morning. This is their reply received by us an hour ago. Nothing whatever is known at Barthorp, which is a very small town of any person of that name. So much for that, thought Bryce. He turned with more interest to the next witness, the Duke of Saxonstead, the great local magnate, a big bluff man who had been present in court since the beginning of the proceedings, in which he was manifestly highly interested. It was possible that he might be able to tell something of moment he might after all know something of this apparently mysterious stranger who for anything that Mrs. Partingley or anybody else could say to the contrary might have had an appointment and business with him but his grace knew nothing. He had never heard the name of John Braden in his life so far as he remembered. He had just seen the body of the unfortunate man and had looked carefully at the features. He was not a man of whom he had any knowledge whatever. He could not recollect ever having seen him anywhere at any time. He knew literally nothing of him. Could not think of any reason at all why this Mr. John Braden should wish to see him. Your grace has no doubt had business dealings with a good many people at one time or another, suggested the coroner. Some of them perhaps with men whom your grace only saw for a brief space of time, a few minutes possibly. You don’t remember ever seeing this man in that way. I’m credited with having an unusually good memory for faces, answered the Duke. And if I may say so rightly, but I don’t remember this man at all. In fact, I’d go as far as to say that I’m positive I’ve never knowingly set eyes on him in my life. Can your grace suggest any reason at all why he should wish to call on you? asked the coroner. None. But then, replied the Duke. There might be many reasons unknown to me, but at which I can make a guess. If he was an antiquaryy, there are lots of old things at Saxonstead which he might wish to see. Or he might be a lover of pictures. Our collection is a bit famous, you know. Perhaps he was a bookman. We have some rare additions. I could go on multiplying reasons, but to what purpose? The fact is your grace doesn’t know him and knows nothing about him, observed the coroner. just so nothing agreed the Duke and step down again. It was at this stage that the coroner sent the jurymen away in charge of his officer to make a careful personal inspection of the gallery in the clary. And while they were gone, there was some commotion caused in the court by the entrance of a police official who conducted to the coroner a middle-aged well-dressed man whom Bryce at once set down as a London commercial magnate of some quality. Between the new arrival and the coroner, an interchange of remarks was at once made, shared in presently by some of the officials at the table. And when the jury came back, the stranger was at once ushered into the witness box, and the coroner turned to the jury and the court. We are unexpectedly able to get some evidence of identity. Gentlemen, he observed. The gentleman who has just stepped into the witness box is Mr. Alexander Chillstone, manager of the London and Colony’s Bank in Thread Needle Street. Mr. Chillstone saw particulars of this matter in the newspapers this morning, and he at once set off to Rochester to tell us what he knows of the dead man. We are very much obliged to Mr. Chillstone, and when he has been sworn, he will perhaps kindly tell us what he can.” In the midst of the murmur of sensation which ran round the court, Bryce indulged himself with a covert look at Ransford, who was sitting opposite to him beyond the table in the center of the room. He saw at once that Ransford, however strenuously he might be fighting to keep his face under control, was most certainly agitated by the coroner’s announcement. His cheeks had pald, his eyes were a little dilated, his lips parted as he stared at the bank manager. Altogether, it was more than mere curiosity that was indicated on his features, and Bryce, satisfied and secretly elated, turned to hear what Mr. Alexander Chillstone had to tell. That was not much, but it was of considerable importance. Only 2 days before, said Mr. Chillstone. That was on the day previous to his death, Mr. John Braden had called at the London AMP, Colony’s Bank of which he, Mr. Chillstone was manager and introducing himself as having just arrived in England from Australia where he said he had been living for some years had asked to be allowed to open an account. He produced some references from agents of the London and Colonies Bank in Melbourne which were highly satisfactory. The account being opened, he paid into it a sum of £10,000 in a drafted site drawn by one of those agents. He drew nothing against this, remarking casually that he had plenty of money in his pocket for the present. He did not even take the checkbook which was offered him, saying that he would call for it later. He did not give us any address in London nor in England, continued the witness. He told me that he had only arrived at Charing Cross that very morning, having traveled from Paris during the night. He said that he should settle down for a time at some residential hotel in London and in the meantime he had one or two calls or visits to make in the country. When he returned from them he said he would call on me again. He gave me very little information about himself. It was not necessary for his references from our agents in Australia were quite satisfactory. But he did mention that he had been out there for some years and had speculated in landed property. He also said that he was now going to settle in England for good. That concluded Mr. Chillstone is all I can tell of my own knowledge. But he added, drawing a newspaper from his pocket. Here is an advertisement which I noticed in this morning’s times as I came down. You will observe, he said, as he passed it to the coroner, that it has certainly been inserted by our unfortunate customer. The coroner glanced at a marked passage in the personal column of the Times and read it aloud. The advertisement is as follows, he announced. If this meets the eye of old friend Marco, he will learn that Sticker wishes to see him again. Write J. Braden C. London AMP, Colony’s Bank, Thread Needle Street, London. Bryce was keeping a quiet eye on Ransford. Was he mistaken in believing that he saw him start? that he saw his cheek flush as he heard the advertisement read out. He believed he was not mistaken, but if he was right, Ransford the next instant regain full control of himself and made no sign, and Bryce turned again to coroner and witness. But the witness had no more to say except to suggest that the bank’s Melbourne agents should be cabled to for information since it was unlikely that much more could be got in England. And with that the middle stage of the proceedings ended, and the last one came, watched by Bryce with increasing anxiety, for it was soon evident, from certain remarks made by the coroner, that the theory which Archdale had put forward at the club in Bryce’s hearing the previous day had gained favor with the authorities, and that the visit of the jurymen to the scene of the disaster had been intended by the coroner to predispose them in behalf of it. And now Archdale himself, as representing the architects who held a retaining fee in connection with the cathedral, was called to give his opinion, and he gave it in almost the same words which Bryce had heard him use 24 hours previously. After him came the master mason, expressing the same decided conviction, that the real truth was that the pavement of the gallery had at that particular place become so smooth and was inclined towards the open doorway at such a sharp angle that the unfortunate man had lost his footing on it, and before he could recover, it had been shot out of the arch and over the broken head of St. Ryther’s stare, and though at a jury man’s wish, Vanna was recalled, and stuck stoutly to his original story of having seen a hand which he protested, was certainly not that of the dead man. It soon became plain that the jury shared the coroner’s belief that Vner, in his fright and excitement, had been mistaken, and no one was surprised when the foreman, after a very brief consultation with his fellows, announced a verdict of death by misadventure. So the cities cleared of the stain of murder, said a man who sat next to Bryce. That’s a good job anyway. Nasty thing, doctor. To think of a murder being committed in a cathedral. There’d be a question of sacrilege, of course, and all sorts of complications. Bryce made no answer. He was watching Ransford, who was talking to the coroner, and he was not mistaken. Now Ransford’s face bore all the signs of infinite relief. From what? Bryce turned to leave the stuffy rapidly emptying court, and as he passed the center table, he saw old Simpson Harker, who, after sitting in attentive silence for 3 hours, had come up to it, picked up the history of Barthorp, which had been found in Braden’s suitcase and was inquisitively peering at its title page. Chapter: The Double Trail. Peton Bryce was not the only person in Rochester who was watching Ransford with keen attention during these events. Mary Buri, a young woman of more than usual powers of observation and penetration, had been quick to see that her guardians distress over the affair in Paradise was something out of the common. She knew Ransford for an exceedingly tender-hearted man with a considerable spice of sentiment in his composition. He was noted for his more than professional interest in the poorer sort of his patients and had gained a deserved reputation in the town for his care of them. But it was somewhat surprising even to Mary that he should be so much upset by the death of a total stranger as to lose his appetite and for at any rate a couple of days be so restless that his conduct could not fail to be noticed by herself and her brother. His remarks on the tragedy were conventional enough, a most distressing affair, a sad fate for the poor fellow, most unexplainable and mysterious, and so on. But his concern obviously went beyond that. He was ill at ease when she questioned him about the facts, almost irritable when Dick Buerie, school boy like, asked him concerning professional details. She was sure from the lines about his eyes and a worn look on his face that he had passed a restless night when he came down to breakfast on the morning of the inquest. But when he returned from the inquest, she noticed a change. It was evident to her ready wits that Ransford had experienced a great relief. He spoke of relief indeed that night at dinner, observing that the verdict which the jury had returned had cleared the air of a foul suspicion. It would have been no pleasant matter, he said, if Rochester Cathedral had gained an unenviable notoriety as the scene of a murder. All the same, remarked Dick, who knew all the talk of the town. Vanna persists in sticking to what he’s said all along. Vanna says said this afternoon after the inquest was over that he’s absolutely certain of what he saw and that he not only saw a hand in a white cuff and black coat sleeve but that he saw the sun gleam for a second on the links in the cuff as if they were gold or diamonds. Pretty stiff evidence that sir, isn’t it? In the state of mind in which Vanna was at that moment, replied Ransford, he wouldn’t be very well able to decide definitely on what he really did see, his vision would retain confused images. Probably he saw the dead man’s hand. He was wearing a black coat and white linen. The verdict was a most sensible one. No more was said after that, and that evening Ransford was almost himself again, but not quite himself. Mary caught him looking very grave in evident abstraction. More than once, more than once she heard him sigh heavily, but he said no more of the matter until 2 days later, when at breakfast he announced his intention of attending John Braden’s funeral, which was to take place that morning. I’ve ordered the Brum for 11, he said, “And I’ve arranged with Dr. Nicholson to attend to any urgent call that comes in between that and noon. So if there is any such call, you can telephone to him. A few of us are going to attend this poor man’s funeral. It would be too bad to allow a stranger to go to his grave unattended, especially after such a fate. There’ll be somebody representing the dean and chapter and three or four principal townsmen, so he’ll not be quite neglected. And here he hesitated and looked a little nervously at Mary, to whom he was telling all this. Dick, having departed for school, there’s a little matter I wish you’d attend. You’ll do it better than I should. The man seems to have been friendless here. At any rate, no relations have come forward in spite of the publicity. So, don’t you think it would be rather considerate, eh, to put a wreath or a cross or something of that sort on his grave just to show, you know? Very kind of you to think of it, said Mary. What do you wish me to do? If you’d go to Gardales, the florists, and order something fitting, you know, replied Ransford, and afterwards later in the day, take it to St. Wigbbert’s churchyard. He’s to be buried there. Take it, if you don’t mind yourself, you know. Certainly, answered Mary. I’ll see that it’s done. She would do anything that seemed good to Ransford, but all the same, she wondered at this somewhat unusual show of interest in a total stranger. She put it down at last to Ransford’s undoubted sentimentality. The man’s sad fate had impressed him, and that afternoon the sexton at St. Wigs pointed out the new grave to Miss Bury and Mr. Sackville Bonham, one carrying a wreath and the other a large bunch of liies. Sackville, chancing to encounter Mary at the florists, whether he had repaired to execute a commission for his mother, had heard her business, and had been so struck by the notion, or by a desire to ingratiate himself with Miss Bury, that he had immediately bought flowers himself to be put down to her account, and insisted on accompanying Mary to the churchyard. Bryce heard of this tribute to John Braden next day from Mrs. Foliot, Sackville Bonham’s mother, a large lady who dominated certain circles of Rochester society in several senses. Mrs. Foliot was one of those women who have been gifted by nature with capacity. She was conspicuous in many ways. Her voice was masculine. She stood nearly 6 ft in her stoutly sold shoes. Her breadth corresponded to her height. Her eyes were piercing. Her nose Roman. There was not a curate in Rochester who was not under her thumb, and if the dean himself saw her coming, he turned hastily into the nearest shop, sweating with fear, lest she should follow him. Endued with riches, and fortified by assurance, Mrs. Foliot was the presiding spirit in many movements of charity and benevolence, there were people in Rochester who were unkind enough to say behind her back that she was as medalsome as she was most undoubtedly autocratic. But as one of her staunchest clerical defenders once pointed out, these grumblers were what might be contemptuously dismissed as five shilling subscribers. Mrs. Folate, in her way, was undoubtedly a power, and for reasons of his own, Peetton Bryce, whenever he met her, which was fairly often was invariably suave and polite. Most mysterious thing this, Dr. Bryce, remarked Mrs. Foliot in her deepest tones encountering Bryce the day after the funeral at the corner of a back street down which she was about to sail on one of her charitable missions to the terror of any of the women who happened to be caught gossiping. What now should make Dr. Ransford cause flowers to be laid on the grave of a total stranger? A sentimental feeling. Fiddle de there must be some reason. I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mrs. Foliate answered Bryce, whose ears had already lengthened. Has Dr. Ransford been laying flowers on a grave. I didn’t know of it. My engagement with Dr. Ransford terminated 2 days ago, so I’ve seen nothing of him. My son, Mr. Sackville Bonham, said Mrs. Foliot tells me that yesterday Miss Bury came into Gardales’s and spent a sovereign, actually a sovereign, on a wreath, which she told Sackville she was about to carry at her guardian’s desire, to this strange man’s grave. Sackville, who is a warm-hearted boy, was touched. He too bought flowers and accompanied Miss Bury. Most extraordinary, a perfect stranger. Dear me, why? Nobody knows who the man was except his bank manager, remarked Bryce, who says he’s holding £10,000 of his. That, admitted Mrs. Foliot gravely, is certainly a consideration. But then, who knows? The money may have been stolen. Now, really, did you ever hear of a quite respectable man who hadn’t even a visiting card or a letter upon him? and from Australia too where all the people that are wanted run away to. I have actually been tempted to wonder Dr. Bryce if Dr. Ransford knew this man in years gone by he might have you know he might have certainly and that of course would explain the flowers. There is a great deal in the matter that requires explanation Mrs. Foliot said Bryce he was wondering if it would be wise to instill some minute drop of poison into the lady’s mind there to increase in potency and in due course to spread. Of course I may have been mistaken. I certainly thought Dr. Ransford seemed unusually agitated by this affair. It appeared to upset him greatly. So I have heard from others who were at the inquest, responded Mrs. Foliott. In my opinion, our coroner, a worthy man otherwise, is not sufficiently particular. I said to Mr. Foliot this morning on reading the newspaper that in my view that inquest should have been adjourned for further particulars. Now, I know of one particular that was never mentioned at the inquest. Oh, said Bryce. And what Mrs. Dara, who lives, as you know, next to Dr. Ransford, replied Mrs. Foliot told me this morning that on the morning of the accident happening to look out of one of her upper windows she saw a man whom from the description given in the newspapers was Mrs. Daramore feels assured was the mysterious stranger crossing the close towards the cathedral in Mrs. Daramore is positive a dead straight line from Dr. Ransford’s garden as if he had been there Dr. Bryce a direct question should have been asked of Dr. Ransford. Had he ever seen that man before? Ah, but you see, Mrs. Foliard, the coroner didn’t know what Mrs. Daramore saw, so he couldn’t ask such a question. Nor could anyone else, remarked Bryce, who was wondering how long Mrs. Damore remained at her upper window, and if she saw him follow Braden. But there are circumstances, no doubt, which ought to be inquired into, and it’s certainly very curious that Dr. Ransford should send a wreath to the grave of a stranger. He went away convinced that Mrs. Folott’s inquisitiveness had been aroused and that her tongue would not be idle. Mrs. Folate, left to herself, had the gift of creating an atmosphere, and if she once got it into her head that there was some mysterious connection between Dr. Ransford and the dead man, she would never rest until she had spread her suspicions. But as for Bryce himself, he wanted more than suspicions. He wanted facts, particulars, data, and once more he began to go over the sum of evidence which had accred, the question of the scrap of paper found in Braden’s purse, and of the exact whereabouts of Richard Jenkins’s grave in Paradise he left for the time being. What was now interesting him chiefly was the advertisement in the Times to which the bank manager from London had drawn attention. He had made haste to buy a copy of the Times and to cut out the advertisement. There it was. Old friend Marker was wanted by presumably old friend sticker and whoever sticker might be, he could certainly be found under care of Jay Braden. It had never been in doubt a moment in Bryce’s mind that Sticker was Jay Braden himself. who now was Marco, who a million to one on it, but Ransford, whose Christian name was Mark? He reckoned up his chances of getting at the truth of the affair and knew that night. As things were, it seemed unlikely that any relations of Braden would now turn up. The Rightchester Paradise case, as the reporters had aptly named it, had figured largely in the newspapers, London and Provincial, it could scarcely have had more publicity. Yet no one, save this bank manager, had come forward. If there had been anyone to come forward, the bank manager’s evidence would surely have proved an incentive to speed, for there was a sum of £10,000 awaiting John Braden’s next ofqin. In Bryce’s opinion, the chance of putting in a claim to £10,000 is not left waiting 48 hours. Whoever saw such a chance would make instant use of telegraph or telephone. But no message from anybody professing relationship with the dead man had so far reached the Rochester police. When everything had been taken into account, Bryce saw no better clue for the moment than that suggested by Ambrose company Barorp. Ambrose company, bookworm, though he was, was a shrewd, sharp fellow, said Bryce, a man of ideas. There was certainly much in his suggestion that a man wasn’t likely to buy an old book about a little insignificant town like Barthorp, unless he had some interest in it. Barthorp, if theory were true, was probably the place of John Braden’s origin. Therefore, information about Braden leading to knowledge of his association or connection with Ransford might be found at Barorp. True, the Barthorp police had already reported that they could tell nothing about any Braden, but that, in Bryce’s opinion, was neither here nor there. He had already come to the conclusion that Braden was an assumed name, and if he went to Barthorp, he was not going to trouble the police. He knew better methods than that of finding things out. Was he going? Was it worth his while? A moment’s reflection decided that matter anything was worth his while, which would help him to get a stronghold on Mark Ransford, and always practical in his doings. He walked round to the free library, obtained a gaziteer, and looked up particulars of Barthorp. There he learned that Barthorp was an ancient market town of 2,000 inhabitants in the north of Leicster, famous for nothing except that it had been the scene of a battle at the time of the Wars of the Roses, and that its trade was mainly in agriculture and stocking, making evidently a slow, sleepy old place. That night, Bryce packed a handbag with small necessaries for a few days excursion, and next morning he took an early train to London. The end of that afternoon found him in a Midland northernbound express looking out on the undulating green acres of Leershare. And while his train was making a 3minut stop at Leicester itself, the purpose of his journey was suddenly recalled to him by hearing the strident voices of the porters on the platform. Barthorp. Next stop, next stop, Barthorp. One of two other men who shared a smoking compartment with Bryce turned to his companion as the train moved off again. Barthorp, he remarked. That’s the place that was mentioned in connection with that very queer affair at Rochester that’s been reported in the papers so much these last few days. The mysterious stranger who kept 10,000 in a London bank and of whom nobody seems to know anything had nothing on him but a history of Barthorp. odd. And yet, though you’d think he’d some connection with the place or had known it, they say nobody at Barorb knows anything about anybody of his name.” “Well, I don’t know that there is anything so very odd about it after all,” replied the other man. “He may have picked up that old book for one of many reasons that could be suggested.” “No, I read all that case in the papers, and I wasn’t so much impressed by the old book feature of it. But I’ll tell you what, there was a thing struck me. I know this Barorp district. We shall be in it in a few minutes. I’ve been a good deal over it. This strange man’s name was given in the papers as John Braden, now close to Barorp, a mile or two outside it. There’s a village of that name Braden Medworth. That’s a curious coincidence. And taken in conjunction with the man’s possession of an old book about Barthorp. Why, perhaps there’s something in it, possibly more than I thought for at first. Well, it’s an odd case, a very odd case, said the first speaker. And as there’s £10,000 in question, more will be heard of it. Somebody will be after that, you may be sure. Bryce left the train at Barthorp, thanking his good luck. The man in the far corner had unwittingly given him a hint. He would pay a visit to Braden Medworth. The coincidence was too striking to be neglected. But first, Barthorp itself, a quaint oldworld little market town, in which some of even the principal houses still wore roofs of thatch, and wherein the old custom of ringing the curfew bell was kept up. He found an old-fashioned hotel in the marketplace under the shadow of the parish church and in its oak panel dining room. Hung about with portraits of masters of foxhounds and queer old prince of sporting and coaching days, he dined comfortably and well. It was too late to attempt any investigations that evening, and when Bryce had finished his leisurely dinner, he strolled into the smoking room, an even older and quaint apartment than that which he had just left. It was one of those rooms only found in very old houses, a room of nooks and corners with a great open fireplace and old furniture and old pictures and curiosities. The sort of place to which the old-fashioned tradesmen of the small provincial towns still resort of an evening rather than patronize the modern political clubs. There were several men of this sort in the room when Bryce entered, talking local politics amongst themselves, and he found a quiet corner and sat down in it to smoke, promising himself some amusement from the conversation around him. It was his way to find interest and amusement in anything that offered, but he had scarcely settled down in a comfortably cushioned elbow chair, when the door opened again, and into the room walked old Simpson Harker. chapter. The best man. Old Harker’s shrewd eyes traveling around the room as if to inspect the company in which he found himself, fell almost immediately on Bryce, but not before Bryce had had time to assume an air and look of innocent and genuine surprise. Harker effected no surprise at all. He looked the astonishment he felt as the younger man rose and motioned him to the comfortable easy chair which he himself had just previously taken. “Dear me,” he exclaimed, nodding his thanks. “I’d no idea that I should meet you in these far-off parts, Dr. Bryce. This is a long way from Rightchester, sir, for righteous folk to meet in.” “I had no idea of meeting you, Mr. Parker, responded Bryce. But it’s a small world, you know, and there are a good many coincidences in it. There’s nothing very wonderful in my presence here, though. I ran down to see after a country practice, I’ve left Dr. Ransford. He had the lie ready as soon as he set eyes on Harker, and whether the old man believed it or not, he showed no sign of either belief or disbelief. He took the chair which Bryce drew forward and pulled out an old-fashioned cigar case, offering it to his companion. “Will you try one, doctor?” he asked. “Genuine stuff, that, sir. I have a friend in Cuba who remembers me now and then.” “No,” he went on as Bryce thanked him and took a cigar. “I didn’t know you’d finish with the doctor. Quietish place this to practice in. I should think much quieter even than our sleepy old city. You know it, inquired Bryce. I have a friend lives here. Old friend of mine, answered Harker. I come down to see him now and then. I’ve been here since yesterday. He does a bit of business for me. Stopping long, doctor. Only just to look round, answered Bryce. I’m off tomorrow morning, 11:00, said Harker. It’s a longish journey to Rochester for old bones like mine. Oh, you’re all right. worth half a dozen younger men,” responded Bryce. “You’ll see a lot of your contemporaries out, Mr. Harker. Well, as you’ve treated me to a very fine cigar, now you’ll let me treat you to a drop of whiskey. They generally have something of pretty good quality in these old-fashioned establishments, I believe.” The two travelers sat talking until bedtime, but neither made any mention of the affair, which had recently set all Rochester a go with excitement. But Bryce was wondering all the time if his companion’s story of having a friend at Barthorp was no more than an excuse. And when he was alone in his own bedroom, and reflecting more seriously, he came to the conclusion that old Harker was up to some game of his own in connection with the Paradise Mystery. The old chap was in the library when Ambrose company said that there was a clue in that Barthorp history, he mused. I saw him myself examining the book after the inquest. No, no, Mr. Harker. The facts are too plain. The evidence is too obvious. And yet, what interest has a retired old tradesman of Rightchester got in this affair? I’d give a good deal to know what Harker really is doing here, and who his Barthorp friend is? If Bryce had risen earlier next morning, and had taken the trouble to track old Harker’s movements, he would have learned something that would have made him still more suspicious. But Bryce, seeing no reason for hurry, lay in bed till well past 9:00, and did not present himself in the coffee room until nearly half 10. And at that hour, Simpson Harker, who had breakfasted before 9, was in close consultation with his friend that friend being none other than the local superintendent of police, who was confidentially closeted with the old man in his private house, with a harker, by previous arrangement, had repaired as soon as his breakfast was over. Had Bryce been able to see through walls or hear through windows, he would have been surprised to find that the harker of this consultation was not the quiet, easygoing, gossipy old gentleman of Rochester, but an eminently practical and business-like man of affairs. And now, as regards this young fellow who’s staying across there at the peacock, he was saying in conclusion, at the very time that Bryce was leisurely munching his second mutton chop in the Peacock coffee room, he’s after something or other, his talk about coming here to see after a practice is all lies. And you’ll keep an eye on him while he’s in your neighborhood. Put your best plain clothes man onto him at once. He’ll easily know him from the description I gave you. And let him shadow him wherever he goes. And then let me know of his movement. He’s certainly on the track of something and what he does may be useful to me. I can link it up with my own work. And as regards the other matter, keep me informed. If you come on anything further now, I’ll go out by your garden and down the back of the town to the station. Let me know by the by when this young man at the peacock leaves here and if possible and you can find out for where. Bryce was all unconscious that anyone was interested in his movements. When he strolled out into Barthorp Marketplace just after 11. He had asked a casual question of the waiter and found that the old gentleman had departed. He accordingly believed himself free from observation. And forth with he set about his work of inquiry in his own fashion. He was not going to draw any attention to himself by asking questions of present-day inhabitants whose curiosity might then be aroused. He knew better methods than that. Every town, said Bryce to himself, possesses public records, parish registers, burgous roles, lists of voters. Even small towns have directories which are more or less complete. He could search these for any mention or record of anybody or any family of the name of Braden. And he spent all that day in that search inspecting numerous documents and registers and books. And when evening came, he had a very complete acquaintance with the family nomenclature of Barth, and he was prepared to bet odds against any one of the name of Braden, having lived there during the past half century. In all his searching, he had not once come across the name. The man who had spent a very lazy day in keeping an eye on Bryce as he visited the various public places where at he made his researches was also keeping an eye upon him next morning when Bryce breakfasting earlier than usual prepared for a second day’s labors. He followed his quarry away from the little town. Bryce was walking out to Braden Medworth. In Bryce’s opinion it was something of a wild goose chase to go there. But the similarity in the name of the village and of the dead man at Rochester might have its significance, and it was but a 2 mi stroll from Barthorp. He found Braden Medworth a very small, quiet, and picturesque place with an old church on the banks of a river which promised good sport to anglers. and there he pursued his tactics of the day before and went straight to the vicorage and its vicar with a request to be allowed to inspect the parish registers. The vicar, having no objection to earning the resultant fees, hastened to comply with Bryce’s request, and inquired how far back he wanted to search, and for what particular entry. No particular entry, answered Bryce, and as to period fairly recent. The fact is I am interested in names. I am thinking here he used one more of his easily found inventions of writing a book on English surnames and am just now inspecting parish registers in the Midlands for that purpose. Then I can considerably simplify your labors, said the vicer, taking down a book from one of his shelves. Our parish registers have been copied and printed and here is the volume. Everything is in there from 1570 to 10 years ago and there is a very full index. Are you staying in the neighborhood or the village? In the neighborhood? Yes, in the village. No longer than the time I shall spend in getting some lunch at the in yonder, answered Bryce, nodding through an open window at an ancient tavern which stood in the valley beneath close to an old stone bridge. Perhaps you will kindly lend me this book for an hour. Then if I see anything very noteworthy in the index, I can look at the actual registers when I bring it back. The vicar replied that that was precisely what he had been about to suggest, and Bryce carried the book away, and while he sat in the in parlor, awaiting his lunch, he turned to the carefully compiled index, glancing it through rapidly. On the third page, he saw the name Bury. If the man who had followed Bryce from Barorp to Braden Medworth had been with him in the quiet in parlor, he would have seen his quarry start, and heard him let a stifled exclamation escape his lips. But the follower, knowing his man was safe for an hour, was in the bar outside, eating bread and cheese, and drinking ale, and Bryce’s surprise was witnessed by no one. Yet he had been so much surprised that if all right had been there, he could not, despite his self-training in watchfulness, have kept back either start or exclamation. Buyer, a name so uncommon that here, here in this outofthe-way Midland village, there must be some connection with the object of his search. There the name stood out before him, to the exclusion of all others, Bury, with just one entry of figures against it. He turned to page with a sense of sure discovery, and there an entry caught his eye at once, and he knew that he had discovered more than he had ever hoped for. He read it again and again, gloating over his wonderful luck. Junth, John Break, Bachelor of the Parish of St. Pancress, London, to Mary Buri Spinster of this parish by the vicar. Witnesses Charles Claybornne, Selena Wesley, Mark Ransford. 22 years ago. The Mary Bury whom Bryce knew in Rochester was just about 20. This Mary Burie spinster of Braden Medworth was then in all probability her mother. But John Break who married that Mary Bury. Who was he? Who indeed laughed Bryce? But John Braden, who had just come by his death in Rochester, Paradise, and there was the name of Mark Ransford as witness. What was the further probability that Mark Ransford had been John Bra’s best man? That he was the Marco of the recent Times advertisement, the John Braden, or break was the sticker of the same advertisement. Clear clear as noonday. And what did it all mean and imply? and what bearing had it on Braden or Break’s death. Before he ate his cold beef, Bryce had copied the entry from the reprinted register, and had satisfied himself that Ransford was not a name known to that village mark. Ransford was the only person of the name mentioned in the register. and his lunch done, he set off for the vicorage again, intent on getting further information, and before he reached the vicorage gates, noticed by accident, a place where at he was more likely to get it than from the vicar, who was a youngish man. At the end of the few houses between the inn and the bridge, he saw a little shop with the name Charles Claybornne painted roughly above its open window. In that open window sat an old cheery-faced man mending shoes who blinked at the stranger through his big spectacles. Bryce saw his chance and turned in to open the book and point out the marriage entry. Are you the Charles Clayborn mentioned there? He asked without ceremony. That’s me, sir, replied the old shoemaker briskly after a glance. Yes, right enough. How came you to witness that marriage? Inquired Bryce. The old man nodded at the church across the way. I’ve been Sexton and Parish Clark 2 and 30 years, sir, he said. And I took it on from my father, and he had the job from his father. Do you remember this marriage? asked Bryce, perching himself on the bench at which the shoemaker was working 22 years since, I see. I, as if it was yesterday, answered the old man with a smile. Miss Bur’s marriage? Why, of course. Who was she? demanded Bryce. Governness at the vicorage, replied Claybornne. Nice, sweet young lady. And the man she married? Mr. Break, continued Bryce. Who was he? A young gentleman that used to come here for the fishing now and then, answered Claybornne, pointing at the river. Famous for our trout we are here, you know, sir. And break had come here for 3 years before they were married him and his friend Mr. Ransford. You remember him too? asked Bryce. remember both of them very well indeed, said Claybornne, though I never set eyes on either after Miss Mary was wed to Mr. Break. But I saw plenty of them both before that. They used to put up at the inn there that I saw you come out of just now. They came two or three times a year, and they were a bit thick with our parson of that time, not this one, his predecessor, and they used to go up to the vicorage and smoke their pipes and cigars with him. And of course, Mr. break and the governness fixed it up though you know at one time it was considered it was going to be her and the other young gentleman Mr. Ransford. Yes, but in the end it was break and Ransford stood best man for him. Bruce assimilated all this information greedily and asked for more. I’m interested in that entry, he said, tapping the open book. I know some people of the name of Buerie. They may be relatives. The shoemaker shook his head as if doubtful. I remember hearing it said, he remarked that Miss Mary had no relations. She’d been with the old vicar sometime, and I don’t remember any relations ever coming to see her, nor her going away to see any. Do you know what break was? asked Bryce. As you say, he came here for a good many times before the marriage. I suppose you’d hear something about his profession or trade or whatever it was. He was a banker, that one, replied Claybornne. A banker? That was his trade, sir. To other gentlemen, Mr. Ransford, he was a doctor. I mind that well enough because once when him and Mr. Break were fishing here, Thomas Joint’s wife fell downstairs and broke her leg and they fetched him to her. He’d got it set before they’d got the regular doctor out from Bath or Yonder. Bryce had now got all the information he wanted, and he made the old parish cler a small present and turned to go. But another question presented itself to his mind, and he re-entered the little shop. Your late vicer, he said, the one in whose family Miss Bury was governous. Where is he now? Dead. Can’t say whether he’s dead or alive, sir, replied Claybornne. He left this parish for another a living in a different part of England some years since, and I haven’t heard much of him from that time to this. He never came back here once, not even to pay us a friendly visit. He was a queerish sort. But I’ll tell you what, sir,” he added, evidently anxious to give his visitor good value for his half crown. “Our present vicar has one of those books with the names of all the clergmen in them, and he’d tell you where his predecessor is now, if he’s a live name of Reverend Thomas Gilwaters, MA, an Oxford College man he was, and very high learned.” Bryce went back to the vicorage, returned the borrowed book, and asked to look at the registers for the year. He verified his copy and turned to the vicar. I accidentally came across the record of a marriage there in which I’m interested, he said as he paid the search fees, celebrated by your predecessor, Mr. Gilwaters. I should be glad to know where Mr. Gilwaters is to be found. Do you happen to possess a clerical directory? The vicar produced a Crockford, and Bryce turned over its pages. Mr. Gilwaters, who from the account there given appeared to be an elderly man who had now retired, lived in London in Bazewater, and Bryce made a note of his address and prepared to depart. “Find any names that interested you?” asked the vicer as his caller left. “Anything noteworthy?” “I found two or three names which interested me immensely,” answered Bryce from the foot of the vicorage steps. “They were well worth searching for.” And without further explanation, he marched off to Barthorp, duly followed by his shadow, who saw him safely into the Peacock an hour later, and an hour after that, went to the police superintendent with his report. Gone, sir, he said, left by the 5:30 Express for London. Chapter nine. The house of his friend. Bryce found himself at 11:00 next morning in a small booklined parlor in a little house which stood in a quiet street in the neighborhood of Westborne Grove. Over the mantlepiece, amongst other odds and ends of pictures and photographs, hung a watercolor drawing of Braden Medworth, and to him presently entered an old silver-haired clergyman, whom he had once took to be Braden Medworth’s former vicar, and who glanced inquisitively at his visitor, and then at the card which Bryce had sent in with a request for an interview. “Dr. Bryce,” he said inquiringly. “Dr. Peton Bryce.” Bryce made his best bow and assumed his sway vest and most ingratiating manner. I hope I’m not intruding on your time, Mr. Gilwaters, he said. The fact is I was referred to you yesterday by the present vicer of Braden Medworth, both he and the sexton there, Claybornne, whom you of course remember, thought you would be able to give me some information on a subject which is of great importance to me. I don’t know the present vicar, remarked Mr. to Gilwaters, motioning Bryce to a chair and taking another close by. Claybornne, of course, I remember very well indeed. He must be getting an old man now, like myself. What is it you want to know now? I shall have to take you into my confidence, replied Bryce, who had carefully laid his plans and prepared his story. And you, I’m sure, Mr. Gilwaters, will respect mine. I have for two years been in practice at Rochester, and have there made the acquaintance of a young lady whom I earnestly desire to marry. She is the ward of the man to whom I have been assistant, and I think you will begin to see why I have come to you when I say that this young lady’s name is Mary Buerie. The old clergyman started and looked at his visitor with unusual interest. He grasped the arm of his elbow chair and leaned forward. Mary Bury,” he said in a low whisper. “What what is the name of the man who is her guardian?” “Dr. Mark Ransford,” answered Bryce promptly. The old man sat upright again with a little toss of his head. “Bless my soul,” he exclaimed. “Mark Ransford?” Then it must have been as I feared and suspected. Bryce made no remark. He knew at once that he had struck on something, and it was his method to let people take their own time. Mr. Gilwaters had already fallen into something closely resembling a revery. Bryce sat silently waiting and expectant, and at last the old man leaned forward again almost eagerly. “What is it you want to know?” he asked, repeating his first question. “Is Is there some some mystery?” “Yes,” replied Bryce. “A mystery that I want to solve, sir, and I dare say that you can help me if you’ll be so good. I am convinced, in fact, I know that this young lady is in ignorance of her parentage, that Ransford is keeping some fact, some truth back from her. And I want to find things out by the merest chance accident. In fact, I discovered yesterday at Braden Medworth that some 22 years ago you married one Mary Buerie, who I learned there was your governness to a John Break and that Mark Ransford was John Bre’s best man and a witness of the marriage. Now, Mr. Gilwaters, the similarity in names is too striking to be devoid of significance. So, it’s of the utmost importance to me. Can or will you tell me who was the Mary Bury you married to John Brake? Who was John Brake? And what was Mark Ransfford to either or to both? He was wondering all the time during which he reeled off these questions if Mr. Gilwaters was wholly ignorant of the recent affair at Rochester. He might be a glance around his book filled room had suggested to Bryce that he was much more likely to be a bookworm than a newspaper reader. And it was quite possible that the events of the day had small interest for him, and his first words in reply to Bryce’s questions convinced Bryce that his surmise was correct, and that the old man had read nothing of the Rochester Paradise mystery, in which Ransford’s name had, of course, figured as a witness at the inquest. It is nearly 20 years since I heard any of their names, remarked Mr. Gilwaters. Nearly 20 years, a long time. But of course, I can answer you. Mary Buri was our governness at Braden Medworth. She came to us when she was 19. She was married 4 years later. She was a girl who had no friends or relatives. She had been educated at a school in the north. I engaged her from that school where I understood she had lived since infancy. Now then as to break and Ransford they were two young men from London who used to come fishing in Leicst. Ransford was a few years the younger. He was either a medical student in his last year or he was an assistant somewhere in London. Brake was a bank manager in London of a branch of one of the big banks. They were pleasant young fellows and I used to ask them to the vicorage. Eventually, Mary Bury and John Brake became engaged to be married. My wife and I were a good deal surprised. We had believed somehow that the favored man would be Ransford. However, it was Break and Break she married. And as you say, Ransford was best man. Of course, Blake took his wife off to London, and from the day of her wedding, I never saw her again. “Did you ever see break again?” asked Bryce. The old clergyman shook his head. “Yes,” he said sadly. “I did see break again under grievous, grievous circumstances.” “You won’t mind telling me what circumstances,” suggested Bryce. “I will keep your confidence, Mr. Gilwaters.” “There is really no secret in it if it comes to that,” answered the old man. “I saw John break again just once in a prison cell.” “A prison cell?” exclaimed Bryce. and he a prisoner. He had just been sentenced to 10 years penal servitude, replied Mr. Gilwaters. I had heard the sentence. I was present. I got leave to see him. 10 years penal servitude, a terrible punishment. He must have been released long ago, but I never heard more. Bryce reflected in silence for a moment, reckoning and calculating. When was this the trial? He asked. It was 5 years after the marriage 17 years ago, replied Mr. Gilwaters. And what had he been doing? Inquired Bryce. Stealing the bank’s money, answered the old man. I forget what the technical offense was, embezzlement or something of that sort. There was not much evidence came out, for it was impossible to offer any defense, and he pleaded guilty. But I gathered from what I heard that something of this sort occurred. Break was a branch manager. He was, as it were, pounced upon one morning by an inspector who found that his cash was short by 2 or3,000. The bank people seemed to have been unusually strict and even severe break, it was said, had some explanation, but it was swept aside and he was given in charge. And the sentence was, as I said just now, a very savage one, I thought. But there had recently been some bad cases of that sort in the banking world, and I suppose the judge felt that he must make an example. Yes, a most trying affair. I have a report of the case somewhere, which I cut out of a London newspaper at the time. Mr. Gilwaters rose and turned to an old desk in the corner of his room, and after some rumaging of papers in a drawer, produced a newspaper cutting book and traced an insertion in its pages. He handed the book to his visitor. There is the account, he said. You can read it for yourself. You will notice that in what Breaks Council said on his behalf, there are one or two curious and mysterious hints as to what might have been said if it had been of any use or advantage to say it. A strange case. Bryce turned eagerly to the faded scrap of newspaper. Bank manager defalcation at the central criminal court yesterday. John Brake, 33, formerly manager of the Upper Tooting branch of the London and Homeounties Bank Limited, pleaded guilty to embezzling certain sums, the property of his employers. Mr. Walkinshaw QC addressing the court on behalf of the prisoner said that while it was impossible for his client to offer any defense, there were circumstances in the case which, if it had been worthwhile to put them in evidence, would have shown that the prisoner was a wronged and deceived man. To use a scriptural phrase, break had been wounded in the house of his friend. The man who was really guilty in this affair had cleverly escaped all consequences. nor would it be of the least use to enter into any details respecting him. Not one penny of the money in question had been used by the prisoner for his own purposes. It was doubtless a wrong and improper thing that his client had done, and he had pleaded guilty and would submit to the consequences. But if everything in connection with the case could have been told, if it would have served any useful purpose to tell it, it would have been seen that what the prisoner really was guilty of was a foolish and serious error of judgment. He himself concluded the learned council would go so far as to say that knowing what he did, knowing what had been told him by his client in strict confidence, the prisoner, though technically guilty, was morally innocent. His lordship, merely remarking that no excuse of any sort could be offered in a case of this sort, sentenced the prisoner to 10 years penal servitude. Bryce read this over twice before handing back the book. Very strange and mysterious, Mr. Gilwaters, he remarked. You say that you saw break after the case was over. Did you learn anything? Nothing whatever, answered the old clergyman. I got permission to see him before he was taken away. He did not seem particularly pleased or disposed to see me. I begged him to tell me what the real truth was. He was, I think, somewhat dazed by the sentence, but he was also sullen and morose. I asked him where his wife and two children, one a mere infant, were, for I had already been to his private address, and had found that Mrs. break had sold all the furniture and disappeared completely. No one thereabouts at any rate knew where she was or would tell me anything. On my asking this, he refused to answer. I pressed him. He said finally that he was only speaking the truth. When he replied that he did not know where his wife was, I said I must find her. He forbade me to make any attempt. Then I begged him to tell me if she was with friends. I remember very well what he replied. I’m not going to say one word more to any man living, Mr. Gilwaters, he answered determinedly. I shall be dead to the world only because I’ve been a trusting fool for 10 years or thereabouts, but when I come back to it, I’ll let the world see what revenge means. Go away, he concluded. I won’t say one word more. And I left him. And you made no more inquiries about the wife? asked Bryce. I did what I could, replied Mr. Gilwaters. I made some inquiry in the neighborhood in which they had lived. All I could discover was that Mrs. Break had disappeared under extraordinarily mysterious circumstances. There was no trace whatever of her and I speedily found that things were being said the usual cruel suspicions you know such as what asked Bryce that the amount of the defalcations was much larger than had been allowed to appear replied Mr. Gilwaters. That break was a very clever rogue who had got the money safely planted somewhere abroad and that his wife had gone off somewhere Australia or Canada or some other faroff region to await his release. Of course, I didn’t believe one word of all that. But there was the fact she had vanished, and eventually I thought of Ransford as having been breaks great friends. So I tried to find him and then I found that he too who up to that time had been practicing in a London suburb strutum had also disappeared. Just after Break’s arrest, Ransford had suddenly sold his practice and gone. No one knew where, but it was believed abroad. I couldn’t trace him anyway. And soon after that, I had a long illness and for 2 or 3 years was an invalid. And well, the thing was over and done with. As I said just now, I have never heard anything of any of them for all these years. And now, now you tell me that there is a Mary Buri who is a ward of a Dr. Mark Ransford at where did you say? At Rchester, answered Bryce. She is a young woman of 20, and she has a brother, Richard, who is between 17 and 18. Without a doubt, those are Blake’s children, exclaimed the old man. The infant I spoke of was a boy. Bless me, how extraordinary. How long have they been at Rochester? Ransford has been in practice there some years, a few years, replied Bryce. These two young people joined him there definitely 2 years ago. But from what I have learned, he has acted as their guardian ever since they were mere children. And their mother asked Mr. Gilwaters said to be dead long since, answered Bryce. And their father, too. They know nothing. Ransford won’t tell them anything. But as you say, I have no doubt of it myself now. They must be the children of John Brake and have taken the name of their mother, remarked the old man. Had it given to them, said Bryce. They don’t know that it isn’t their real name. Of course, Ransford has given it to them. But now, the mother. Ah, yes, the mother, said Mr. Gilwaters. Our old governness. Dear me, I’m going to put a question to you, continued Bryce, leaning nearer and speaking in a low, confidential tone. You must have seen much of the world, Mr. Gil Waters. Men of your profession know the world, and human nature, too, call to mind all the mysterious circumstances, the veiled hints of that trial. Do you think, have you ever thought that the false friend whom the council referred to was Ransford? Come now,” the old clergyman lifted his hands and let them fall on his knees. “I do not know what to say,” he exclaimed. “To tell you the truth, I’ve often wondered if that was what really did happen. There is the fact that Brick’s wife disappeared mysteriously. That Ransford made a similar mysterious disappearance about the same time. That Blake was obviously suffering from intense and bitter hatred when I saw him after the trial hatred of some person on whom he meant to be revenged, and that his council hinted that he had been deceived and betrayed by a friend. Now, to my knowledge, he and Ransford were the closest of friends in the old days before Blake married our governness, and I suppose the friendship continued. Certainly, Ransford acted as best man at the wedding. But how account for that strange double disappearance? Bryce had already accounted for that in his own secret mind, and now, having got all that he wanted out of the old clergyman, he rose to take his leave. You will regard this interview as having been of a strictly private nature, Mr. Gilwaters, he said. Certainly, responded the old man. But you mentioned that you wish to marry the daughter. Now that you know about her father’s past, for I am sure she must be John Bra’s child, you won’t allow that to a not for a moment, answered Bryce, with a fair show of magnanimity. I am not a man of that complexion, sir. No, I only wish to clear up certain things, you understand? And since she is apparently, from what you say, in ignorance of her real father’s past, what then? asked Mr. Gilwaters anxiously. Shall you? I shall do nothing whatever in any haste, replied Bryce. Really upon me to consider her feelings in everything. As you have been so kind, I will let you know later how matters go. This was one of Pembbertton Bryce’s ready inventions. He had not the least intention of ever seeing or communicating with the late vicer of Braden Medworth again. Mr. Gilwaters had served his purpose for the time being. He went away from Bazewater, and an hour later from London, highly satisfied. In his opinion, Mark Ransford 17 years before had taken advantage of his friend’s misfortunes to run away with his wife, and when break alias Braden had unexpectedly turned up at Rochester, he had added to his former wrong by the commission of a far greater one. Chapter diplomacy. Bryce went back to Rochester 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 Break’s release. He had probably heard on his release that Ransford and his Brakes 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 Rochester. 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. Break 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 break to walk up into the gallery with him, had noticed the open doorway, had thrown break 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 Rochester. He pictured the police listening greedily to all that he could tell them if he liked. There was only one factor in the wholesome of the affair which seemed against him, the advertisement in the Times. If break 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 Gaye 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 Break down St. Rether’s stair and killed him. He was assure of that as he was certain that Braden was break 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 12 months past, and he was not a man to be bulked of his purpose. by fair means or foul. He himself ignored the last word and would have substituted the term skillful for it. Peton Bryce meant to have Mary Buerie. Mary Bury herself had no thought of Bryce in her head when the morning after that Worthy’s return to Reich, she set out alone for the Rochester 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 weigh lay her. And empty of Bryce, though her mind was, she was not surprised when, at a lonely place on Rochester 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 wicked gate at that point, and Bryce barred the way with unmistakable purpose. It was plain to the girl that he had laid in weight 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 weigh lay 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 at the strange death of that man, Braden. Well, she asked with a sudden look of uneasiness. What of it? It’s being rumored 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 color. What could he have to do with it? What could give rise to such foolish, wicked rumors? 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 Rochester, 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. Ransfford didn’t know that man had never seen him. That’s not certain, replied Bryce. It said, remember I’m only repeating things. It 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 ask you to respect my confidence. I have 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 dinery, 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 Bury was by this time pale and trembling, and Bryce continued to watch her steadily. She stole a fertive 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. Daramore 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. Daramore for a gossip. Between ourselves, said Bryce. She did not. She told Mrs. Foliot. Mrs. Foliot told me. So it is talked about, exclaimed Mary. I said so, asented Bryce. You know what Mrs. Foliott’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 whole 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 rumors 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 clubhouse across the common, while Bryce turned off to the town, highly elated with his morning’s work. He had sewn the seeds of uneasiness and suspicion broadcast. Some of them he knew would mature. Mary Bury played no golf that morning. In fact, she only went on to the clubhouse 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 forever 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 hundth 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 Foliad’s 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. Foliot. 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. Foliot. 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 around his garden. She turned at once and walked in, and Folly 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 color and size which she had never seen before. “What do you think of the results?” “Mnificent!” exclaimed Mary. “I never saw anything so fine.” “No,” agreed Foliot, 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 3 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. Damore, 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. Foliot? Why, you know what happened last week? Continued Foliot, glancing knowingly at her. The accident to that stranger. This Mrs. Daramore, 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. to 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. Foliot. So Sackville told me remarked Foliott. He was present and so was I when Mrs. Daramore 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. Daramore she’d far better hold her tongue, continued Foliot. Titt 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 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. Foliot has repeated what Mrs. Daramore 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 nextdoor neighbor. Ba, there are a lot of old gossip 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. Foliot looked at her out of his halfshot 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, he nodded as if reassuringly and went off to rejoin his gardener. And Mary walked home with her roses, more thoughtful than ever. Mystery? Bit of mystery? There was a vast and heavy cloud of mystery, and she knew she could have no peace until it was lifted. Chapter 11. The backroom. In the midst of all her perplexity at that moment, Mary Buri was certain of one fact about which she had no perplexity nor any doubt it would not be long before the rumors of which Bryce and Mr. Foliot had spoken. Although she had only lived in Rochester, 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 Minaj was an informal meal. At a quart 1 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 Bury who fortified himself sedulously after his morning school labors. 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 have a lot of fellows town boys who talk.” I dare say,” responded Ransfford 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 didn’t tell? He asked. Dent 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 Bosch. 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. Daramore, replied Dick promptly. She says she saw him go away from the house and across the close a little before 10. So Jim Damore says anyway, and he says his mother’s eyes are as good as anothers. Doubtless,” asented 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 guardians inquiring glance. Have you heard anything of this? He asked. That there was a rumor. 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. Foliot at any rate had not bound her to secrecy. Mr. Folott, she replied, he called me into his garden to give me those roses, and he mentioned that Mrs. Daramore had said these things to Mrs. Foliot, and as he seemed to think it highly probable that Mrs. Folate would repeat them. He told me because he didn’t want you to think that the rumor 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 Rochester, had occupied rooms in an old house in Friary Lane at the back of the clothes. 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 Bury 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 rumor 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 rumors are flying about in Rochester, 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 Mitch 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 a trifles. You don’t know what may be a foot. He almost forced them away, drew the curtains again, and hurrying to the front door, returned almost immediately with Mitch. 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 rumor getting out in the town about that affair last week. Seems to have sprung from some of those old dowagers in the clothes. Of course, said Bryce. He was mixing a whiskey 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. Um, good health, sir. Heard, of course, that that Braden called on Dr. Ransfford 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 rumor 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. “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 Mitchton. Merely to be told where the Cathedral Library was, answered Bryce. Ransford, watching Mary Bury, saw her cheeks flush, and knew that Bryce was cheerfully telling lies. But Mitch 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. Damore made her mistake, I happen to know, Mitch, that she started this rumor 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 had once imagined he’d seen and been talking with Ransford. “Old fool,” said Mitchton. “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 bettokened 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,” asented Mitchton. To start with, that man Vanna, the mason, has never ceased talking. They say he’s always added 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 Vanas is a direct affirmation. and the other matters a sort of ugly hint. There’s a man named Kleshaw, a townsman, who’s been employed as a mason’s laborer about the cathedral of late. This Kishore, 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 sorely silent. That of course spread and got to my ears. I’ve seen Kashaw. Well, asked Bryce, “I believe the man does know something,” answered Mitch. “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 someday, 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 Mitch. “I made some inquiry, and I find that Kishor 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 Mitchon. Yes, I warned him solemnly. With no effect, asked Bryce. He’s a sirly sort of man, said Mitchon. 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,” asented Mitchton. “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 miter, he was out somewhere for a whole two hours by himself. I thought we learned from Mrs. Partingly that he and the other man Delingham spent the evening together, said Bryce. So we did, but that was not quite so, replied. Braden went out of the miter just before 9:00, and he didn’t return until a few minutes after 11. 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 Mitchton 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 pererempterly. You put that man off about the call at my surgery. You didn’t tell him the truth. Quite right, asented 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. Chapter: Murder of the Mason’s Laborer. It was towards noon of the very next day that Bryce made a forward step in the matter of solving the problem of Richard Jenkins and his tomb in Paradise. Ever since his return from Barthorp, he had been making attempts to get at the true meaning of this mystery. He had paid so many visits to the cathedral library that Ambrose company had asked himly if he was going in for archaeology. Bryce had replied that having nothing to do just then, he saw no reason why he shouldn’t improve his knowledge of the antiquities of Rochester, but he was scrupulously careful not to let the librarian know the real object of his prying and peeping into the old books and documents. Company, as Bryce was very well aware, was a walking encyclopedia of information about Reichester Cathedral. He was in fact at that time engaged in completing a history of it. And it was through that history that Bryce accidentally got his precious information. For on the day following the interview with Mary Buery in Ransford, Bryce being in the library was treated by company to an inspection of certain drawings which the librarian had made for illustrating his work drawings, most of them of old brasses, coats of arms, and the like. And at the foot of one of these, a drawing of a shield on which was sculptured three crows, Bryce saw the name Richard Jenkins Armager. It was all he could do to repress a start and to check his tongue. But Campony, knowing nothing, quickly gave him the information he wanted. All these drawings, he said, are of old things in and about the cathedral. Some of them, like that, for instance, the Jenkins shield, are of ornamentations on tombs which are so old that the inscriptions have completely disappeared tombs in the closters and in paradise. Some of those tombs can only be identified by these sculptures and ornaments. How do you know, for instance, that any particular tomb or monument is, we’ll say, Jenkins’s? asked Bryce, feeling that he was on safe ground. Must be a matter of doubt if there’s no inscription left, isn’t it? No, replied Campy. No doubt at all. In that particular case, there’s no doubt that a certain tomb out there in the corner of Paradise near the east wall of the south porch is that of one Richard Jenkins, because it bears his coat of arms, which as you see bore these birds intended either as crows or ravens. The inscriptions clean gone from that tomb, which is why it isn’t particularized in that chart of burials in paradise. The man who prepared that chart didn’t know how to trace things as we do nowadays. Richard Jenkins was, as you may guess, a Welshman who settled here in Rochester in the 17th century. He left some money to St. Hedvig’s church outside the walls, but he was buried here. There are more instances. Look at this now. This coat of arms, that’s the only means there is of identifying another tomb in paradise. That of J’s turret. You see his armorial bearings in this drawing. Now those Bryce let the librarian go on talking and explaining and heard all he had to say as a man hears things in a dream. What was really active in his own mind was joy at this unexpected stroke of luck. He himself might have searched for many a year and never found the last resting place of Richard Jenkins. And when soon after the great clock of the cathedral had struck the hour of noon, he left Campany and quitted the library, he walked over to paradise and plunged in amongst its use and cypresses, intent on seeing the Jenkins tomb for himself. No one could suspect anything from merely seeing him there, and all he wanted was one glance at the ancient monument. But Bryce was not to give even one look at Richard Jenkins’s tomb that day, nor the next, nor for many days death, met him in another form, before he had taken many steps in the quiet enclosure where so much of Rochester mortality lay sleeping. From over the topmost branches of the old utrees, a great shaft of noon tide sunlight fell full on a patch of the gray walls of the high roofed nave. At the foot of it, his back comfortably planted against the angle of a projecting buttress, sat a man evidently fast asleep in the warmth of those powerful rays. His head leaned down and forward over his chest. His hands were folded across his waist. His whole attitude was that of a man who, having eaten and drunken in the open air, has dropped off to sleep. that he had so dropped off while in the very act of smoking was evident from the presence of a short well blackened clay pipe which had fallen from his lips and lay in the grass beside him. Near the pipe spread on a colored handkerchief were the remains of his dinner Bryce’s quick eye noticed fragments of bread, cheese, onions, and close by stood one of those tin bottles in which laboring men carry their drink. its cork tied to the neck by a piece of string dangled against the side. A few yards away, a mass of fallen rubbish and a shovel and wheelbarrow showed at what the sleeper had been working when his dinner hour and time for rest had arrived. Something unusual, something curiously noticeable, yet he could not exactly tell what made Bryce go closer to the sleeping man. There was a strange stillness about him, a rigidity which seemed to suggest something more than sleep. And suddenly, with a stifled exclamation, he bent forward and lifted one of the folded hands. It dropped like a leen weight when Bryce released it, and he pushed back the man’s face and looked searchingly into it. And in that instant he knew that for the second time, within a fortnight he had found a dead man in righteous paradise. There was no doubt whatever that the man was dead. His hands and body were warm enough, but there was not a flicker of breath. He was as dead as any of the folk who lay six feet beneath the old gravestones around him, and Bryce’s practiced touch, and I knew that he was only just dead, and that he had died in his sleep. Everything there pointed unmistakably to what had happened. The man had eaten his frugal dinner, washed it down from his tin bottle, lighted his pipe, leaned back in the warm sunlight, dropped asleep, and died as quietly as a child taken from its play to its slumbers. After one more careful look, Bryce turned and made through the trees to the path which crossed the old graveyard. And there, going leisurely home to lunch, was Dick Bury, who glanced at the young doctor inquisitively. Hello, he exclaimed with the freedom of youth towards something not much older. You there? Anything on? Then he looked more clearly, seeing Bryce to be pale and excited. Bryce laid a hand on the lad’s arm. Look here, he said. There’s something wrong again in here. Run down to the police station. Get hold of Mitchton quietly. You understand? Bring him here at once. If he’s not there, bring somebody else, any of the police, but say nothing to anybody but them. Dick gave him another swift look, turned and ran. And Bryce went back to the dead man, and picked up the tin bottle, and making a cup of his left hand, poured out a trickle of the contents. Cold tea, and as far as he could judge nothing else, he put the tip of his little finger into the weak-looking stuff, and tasted it tasted of nothing but a super abundance of sugar. He stood there watching the dead man until the sound of footsteps behind him gave warning of the return of Dick Buri, who in another minute hurried through the bushes, followed by Mitchington. The boy stared in silence at the still figure, but the inspector, after a hasty glance, turned a horrified face on Bryce. “Good Lord,” he gasped. “It’s Kishaw.” Bryce for the moment failed to comprehend this and Mitchon shook his head. Kleshaw, he repeated. Collaw, you know, the man I told you about yesterday afternoon. The man that said Mitchington suddenly checked himself with a glance at Dick Bury. I remember now, said Bryce. The Mason’s laborer. So this is the man. E. Well, Mitch, he’s dead. I found him dead just now. I should say he’d been dead 5 to 10 minutes, not more. You’d better get help and I’d like another medical man to see him before he’s removed. Mitch looked again at Dick. Perhaps you’d fetch Dr. Ransford, Mr. Richard, he asked. He’s nearest. Dr. Ransford’s not at home, said Dick. He went to Hyminster some county council business or other at 10 this morning, and he won’t be back until 4:00. I happen to know that. Shall I run for Dr. Coats? If you wouldn’t mind, said Mitchton, and as it’s close by, drop in at the station again and tell the sergeant to come here with a couple of men. I say, he went on when the boy had hurried off. This is a queer business, Dr. Bryce. What do you think? I think this answered Bryce. That man, look at him. A strong, healthy looking fellow in the very prime of life. That man has met his death by foul means. You take particular care of those dinner things of his, the remains of his dinner, every scrap, and of that tin bottle, that especially. Take all these things yourself, Mitchon, and lock them up. They’ll be wanted for examination. Mitch glanced at the simple matters which Bryce indicated. And suddenly he turned a half frightened glance on his companion. “You don’t mean to say that that you suspect he’s been poisoned?” he asked. “Good Lord, if that is so, I don’t think you’ll find that there’s much doubt about it,” answered Bryce. “But that’s a point that will soon be settled. You’d better tell the coroner at once, Smitchington, and he’ll issue a formal order to Dr. Coats to make a postmortem. And,” he added significantly, “I shall be surprised if it isn’t, as I say, poison.” If that’s so, observed Mitchon with a grim shake of his head. If that really is so, then I know what I shall think. This, he went on, pointing to the dead man, this is a sort of sequel to the other affair. There’s been something in what the poor chap said, he did know something against somebody, and that somebody’s got to hear of it and silenced him. But Lord, doctor, how can it have been done? I can see how it can have been done easy enough, said Bryce. This man has evidently been at work here by himself all the morning. He of course brought his dinner with him. He no doubt put his basket and his bottle down somewhere while he did his work. What easier than for someone to approach through these trees and shrubs while the man’s back was turned, or he was busy round one of these corners and put some deadly poison into that bottle. Nothing. Well, remarked Mitchon, “If that so, it proves something else to my mind.” “What?” asked Bryce, “Why, that whoever it was who did it was somebody who had a knowledge of poison,” answered Mitch. “And I should say, there aren’t many people in Rochester who have such knowledge outside yourselves and the chemists.” “It’s a black business this.” Bryce nodded silently. He waited until Dr. Coats, an elderly man who was the leading practitioner in the town, arrived, and to him he gave a careful account of his discovery. And after the police had taken the body away, and he had accompanied Mitchon to the police station, and seen the tin bottle and the remains of Kashaw’s dinner safely locked up, he went home to lunch. and to wonder at this strange development. The inspector was doubtless right in saying that Kishaw had been done to death by somebody who wanted to silence him. But who could that somebody be? Bryce’s thoughts immediately turned to the fact that Ransford had overheard all that Mitch had said in that very room in which he Bryce was then lunching. Ransford? Was it possible that Ransford had realized a danger in Kishaw’s knowledge and had he was interrupted at this stage by Mitchington, who came hurriedly in with a scared face. “I say I say,” he whispered as soon as Bryce’s landlady had shut the door on them. “Here’s a fine business. I’ve heard something, something I can hardly credit, but it’s true. I’ve been to tell Kolshaw’s family what’s happened, and I’m fairly dazed by it. Yet it’s there. It is so. What’s so? demanded Bryce. What is it that’s true? Mitch bent closer over the table. Dr. Ransford was fetched to Kashaw’s cottage at 6:00 this morning, he said. It seems that Kashaw’s wife has been in a poor way about her health of late, and Dr. Ransford has attended her off and on. She had some sort of a seizure this morning early, and Ransford was sent for. He was there some little time, and I’ve heard some queer things. What sort of queer things? demanded Bryce. Don’t be afraid of speaking out, man. There’s no one to hear but myself. Well, things that look suspicious on the face of it, continued Mitch, who was obviously much upset. As you’ll acknowledge when you hear them, I got my information from the next door neighbor, Mrs. Bats. Mrs. Bats says that when Ransford, who’d been fetched by Mrs. Bats’s eldest lad came to Kashaw’s house. Kleshaw was putting up his dinner to take to his work. “What on earth made Mrs. Bats tell you that?” interrupted Bryce. “Oh well, to tell you the truth, I put a few questions to her as to what went on while Ransford was in the house,” answered Mitch. “When I’d once found that he had been there, you know, I naturally wanted to know all I could.” Well asked Bryce Kashawore I say was putting up his dinner to take to his work continued Mitchington. Mrs. Bats was doing a thing or two about the house. Ransford went upstairs to see Mrs. Kishaw. After a while he came down and said he would have to remain a little. Kishaw went up to speak to his wife before going out and then Ransford asked Mrs. Bats for something. I forget what some small matter which the Kishor hadn’t got and she had and she went next door to fetch it. Therefore, do you see Ransford was left alone with Collaw’s tin bottle? Bryce, who had been listening attentively, looked steadily at the inspector. You’re suspecting Ransford already, he said. Mitchon shook his head. What’s it look like? He answered almost appealingly. I put it to you now. What does it look like? Here’s this man been poisoned without a doubt. I’m certain of it. And there were those rumors. It’s idle to deny that they centered in Ransford. And this morning Ransford had the chance. That’s arguing that Ransford purposely carried a dose of poison to put into Kishaw’s tin bottle, said Bryce half sneeringly. Not very probable, you know, Mitch. Mitch spread out his hands. Well, there it is, he said. As I say, there’s no denying the suspicious look of it. If I were only certain that those rumors about what Kishaw hinted he could say had got to Ransford’s ears, why then? What’s being done about that postmortem? asked Bryce. Dr. Coats and Dr. Everest are going to do it this afternoon, replied Mitchon. The coroner went to them at once as soon as I told him. They’ll probably have to call in an expert from London, said Bryce. However, you can’t do anything definite, you know, until the results known. Don’t say anything of this to anybody. I’ll drop in at your place later and hear if Coats can say anything really certain. Mitch went away and Bryce spent the rest of the afternoon wondering, speculating, and scheming. If Ransford had really got rid of this man who knew something, why then? It was certainly Ransford who killed Braden. He went round to the police station at 5:00. Mitchington drew him aside. Coat says there’s no doubt about it, he whispered. Poisoned hydrocyanic acid. Chapter 13. Bryce is asked a question. Mitchon stepped aside into a private room, motioning Bryce to follow him. He carefully closed the door and looking significantly at his companion, repeated his last words with a shake of the head. poisoned without the very least doubt, he whispered. Hydrocyanic acid, which I understand is the same thing as what’s commonly called proic acid. They say then hadn’t the least difficulty in finding that out. So there you are. That’s what Coats has told you, of course, asked Bryce after the autopsy. Both of them told Mikot and Everest who helped him, replied Mitch. They said it was obvious from the very start. And I say, “Well,” said Bryce, “It wasn’t in that tin bottle anyway,” remarked, who was evidently greatly weighted with mystery. “No, of course it wasn’t,” affirmed Bryce. “Good heavens, man. I know that.” “How do you know?” asked Mitchton. Because I poured a few drops from that bottle into my hand when I first found Kishaw and tasted the stuff, answered Bryce readily. Cold tea with too much sugar in it. There was no HCN in that. Besides, wherever it is, there’s always a smell stronger or fainter of bitter almonds. There was none about that bottle. Yet you were very anxious that we should take care of the bottle, observed. Of course, because I suspected the use of some much rarer poison than that, retorted Bryce. Pooh. It’s a clumsy way of poisoning anybody quick though it is. Well, there’s where it is, said Mitchon. That’ll be the medical evidence at the inquest anyway. That’s how it was done. And the question now is who did it? Interrupted Bryce. Precisely. Well, I’ll say this much at once, Mitch. Whoever did it was either a big bungler or damned clever. That’s what I say. I don’t understand you, said Mitch. Plain enough my meaning, replied Bryce, smiling. To finish anybody with that stuff is easy enough, but no poison is more easily detected. It’s an amateur-ish way of poisoning anybody unless you can do it in such a fashion that no suspicion can attach you to. And in this case, it’s here. Whoever administered that poison to Kolishaw must have been certain, absolutely certain, mind you, that it was impossible for anyone to find out that he’d done so. Therefore, I say what I said, the man must be damned clever. Otherwise, he’d be found out pretty quick. And all that puzzles me is how was it administered? How much would kill anybody? Pretty quick, asked Mitchon. How much? One drop would cause instantaneous death, answered Bryce. Cause paralysis of the heart there and then instantly. Mitch remained silent a while, looking meditatively at Bryce. Then he turned to a locked drawer, produced a key, and took something out of the drawer, a small object wrapped in paper. “I’m telling you a good deal, doctor,” he said. “But as you know so much already, I’ll tell you a bit more. Look at this.” He opened his hand and showed Bryce a small cardboard pill box across the face of which a few words were written. One after meals, mister Kishaw. Whose handwriting is that? demanded. Bryce looked closer and started. Ransfords, he muttered. Ransford, of course. That box was in Kashaw’s waste coat pocket, said. There are pills inside it now. See? He took off the lid of the box and revealed four sugarcoated pills. It wouldn’t hold more than six. This, he observed. Bryce extracted a pill and put his nose to it after scratching a little of the sugar coating away. Mere digestive pills, he announced. Could it have been given in one of these? Asked Mitch. Possible, replied Bryce. He stood thinking for a moment. Have you shown those things to Coats and Everest? he asked at last. “Not yet,” replied Mitchton. “I wanted to find out first if Ransford gave this box to Kashore, and when I’m going to Kishaw’s house presently. I have certain inquiries to make. His widow will know about these pills. You’re suspecting Ransford,” said Bryce. “That’s certain.” Mitch carefully put away the pill box and relocked the drawer. I’ve got some decidedly uncomfortable ideas which I’d much rather not have about Dr. Ransford, he said, when one thing seems to fit into another. What is one to think? If I was certain that that rumor which spread about Kishaw’s knowledge of something, you know, had got to Ransford’s ears. Why? I should say it looked very much as if Ransford wanted to stop Kishaw’s tongue for good before it could say more. And next time perhaps something definite. If men once begin to hint that they know something, they don’t stop at hinting. Kashaw might have spoken plainly before long to us. Bryce asked a question about the holding of the inquest and went away, and after thinking things over, he turned in the direction of the cathedral and made his way through the closters to the close. He was going to make another move in his own game while there was a good chance. Everything at this juncture was throwing excellent cards into his hand. He would be foolish, he thought, not to play them to advantage. And so he made straight for Ransford’s house, and before he reached it, met Ransford and Mary Buie, who were crossing the close from another point on their way from the railway station. whether Mary had gone especially to meet her guardian. They were in such deep conversation that Bryce was close upon them before they observed his presence. When Ransford saw his late assistant, he scowlled unconsciously Bryce, and the interview of the previous afternoon had been much in his thoughts all day, and he had an uneasy feeling that Bryce was playing some game. Bryce was quick to see that scowl and to observe the sudden start which Mary could not repress, and he was just as quick to speak. I was going to your house, Dr. Ransford, he remarked quietly. I don’t want to force my presence on you now or at any time, but I think you’d better give me a few minutes. They were at Ransford’s garden gate by that time. And Ransford flung it open and motioned Bryce to follow. He led the way into the dining room, closed the door on the three, and looked at Bryce. Bryce took the glance as a question, and put another in words. You’ve heard of what’s happened during the day, he said. About Kishaw. Yes, answered Ransford. Miss Bury has just told me what her brother told her. What of it? I have just come from the police station, said Bryce. Coats and Everest have carried out an autopsy this afternoon. Mitch told me the result. “Well,” demanded Ransford, with no attempt to conceal his impatience. “And what then?” Collaw was poisoned, replied Bryce, watching Ransford with a closeness which Mary did not fail to observe. “Hn no doubt at all about it.” “Well, and what then?” asked Ransford, still more impatiently. To be explicit, what’s all this to do with me? I came here to do you a service, answered Bryce. Whether you like to take it or not is your lookout. You may as well know it you’re in danger. Kishaw is the man who hinted, as you heard yesterday in my rooms, that he could say something definite about the Braden affair if he liked. Well, said Ransford, it’s known to the police that you were at Kashaw’s house early this morning, said Bryce. Mitch knows it. Ransford laughed. Does Mitchon know that I overheard what he said to you yesterday afternoon? He inquired. No, he doesn’t, answered Bryce. He couldn’t possibly know unless I told him. I haven’t told him. I’m not going to tell him. But he’s suspicious already. Of me, of course, suggested Ransford with another laugh. He took a turn across the room and suddenly faced round on Bryce, who had remained standing near the door. Do you really mean to tell me that Mitchon is such a fool as to believe that I would poison a poor working man? And in that clumsy fashion, he burst out. Of course you don’t. I never said I did, answered Bryce. I’m only telling you what Mitchon thinks is grounds for suspecting. He confided in me because, well, it was I who found Kashaw. Mitch is in possession of a box of digestive pills which you evidently gave Kolshaw. Ah, exclaimed Ransford. The man’s a fool. Let him come and talk to me. He won’t do that yet, said Bryce. But I’m afraid he’ll bring all this out at the inquest. The fact is he’s suspicious what, with one thing or another, about the former affair. He thinks you concealed the truth, whatever it may be, as regards any knowledge of Braden, which you may or may have. I’ll tell you what it is, said Ransford suddenly. It just comes to this. I’m suspected of having had a hand the hand if you like in Braden’s death. And now of getting rid of Kashaw because Kishaw could prove that I had that hand. That’s about it. A clear way of putting it certainly asented Bryce. But there’s a very clear way too of dissipating any such ideas. What way? demanded Ransford. If you do know anything about the Braden affair, why not reveal it and be done with the whole thing? Suggested Bryce. That would finish matters. Ransford took a long, silent look at his questioner, and Bryce looked steadily back, and Mary Buri anxiously watched both men. That’s my business, said Ransford at last. I’m neither to be coerced, bullied, or cajjol. I’m obliged to you for giving me a hint of my danger, I suppose, and I don’t propose to say anymore. Neither do I, said Bryce. I only came to tell you. And therewith, having successfully done all that he wanted to do, he walked out of the room and the house, and Ransford, standing in the window, his hands thrust in his pockets, watched him go away across the clothes. Guardian, said Mary softly. Ransford turned sharply. Wouldn’t it be best? She continued, speaking nervously. If if you do know anything about that unfortunate man, if you told it, why have this suspicion fastening itself on you? You. Ransford made an effort to calm himself. He was furiously angry. Angry with Bryce, angry with Mitch, angry with the cloud of foolishness and stupidity that seemed to be gathering. Why should I, supposing that I do know something which I don’t admit? Why should I allow myself to be coerced and frightened by these fools? He asked. No man can prevent suspicion falling on him. It’s my bad luck in this instance. Why should I rush to the police station and say, “Here, I’ll blurt out all I know.” Everything. Why? Wouldn’t that be better than knowing that people are saying things? She asked. As to that, replied Ransford. You can’t prevent people saying things, especially in a town like this. If it hadn’t been for the unfortunate fact that Braden came to the surgery door, nothing would have been said. But what of that? I have known hundreds of men in my time. I and forgotten them. No, I am not going to fall a victim to this device. It all springs out of curiosity. As to this last affair, it’s all nonsense. But if the man was really poisoned, suggested Mary. Let the police find the poisoner, said Ransford with a grim smile. That’s their job. Mary said nothing for a moment, and Ransford moved restlessly about the room. I don’t trust that fellow Bryce, he said suddenly. He’s up to something. I don’t forget what he said when I bundled him out that morning. What? She asked. That he would be a bad enemy, answered Ransford. He’s posing now as a friend. But a man’s never to be so much suspected as when he comes doing what you may call unnecessary acts of friendship. I’d rather that anybody was mixed up in my affairs, your affairs, than Pembbert and Bryce. So would I, she said, but she paused there a moment and then looked appealingly at Ransford. I do wish you’d tell me what you promised to tell me, she said. You know what I mean about me and Dick somehow? I don’t quite know how or why. I have an uneasy feeling that Bryce knows something and that he’s mixing it all up with this. Why not tell me, please?” Ransford, who was still marching about the room, came to a halt, and leaning his hands on the table between them, looked earnestly at her. “Don’t ask that now,” he said. “I can’t yet. The fact is I’m waiting for something, some particulars. As soon as I get them, I’ll speak to you and to Dick. In the meantime, don’t ask me again. And don’t be afraid. And as to this affair, leave it to me. And if you meet Bryce again, refuse to discuss anything with him. Look here. There’s only one reason why he professes friendliness and a desire to save me annoyance. He thinks he can ingratiate himself with you. Mistaken, murmured Mary, shaking her head. I don’t trust him, and less than ever because of yesterday. Would an honest man have done what he did? Let that police inspector talk freely as he did with people concealed behind a curtain? and he laughed about it. I hated myself for being there yet. Could we help it? I’m not going to hate myself on Peton Bryce’s account, said Ransford. Let him play his game that he has one, I’m certain. Bryce had gone away to continue his game, or another line of it. The Kishaw matter had not made him forget the Richard Jenkins tomb. And now, after leaving Ransford’s house, he crossed the close to paradise with the object of doing a little more investigation. But at the archway of the ancient enclosure, he met old Simpson Harker, pottering about in his usual, apparently aimless fashion. Harker smiled at sight of Bryce. “Ah, I was wanting to have a word with you, doctor,” he said. “Something important. Have you got a minute or two to spare, sir? Come round to my little place, then we shall be quiet there. Bryce had any amount of time to spare for an interesting person like Harker, and he followed the old man to his house, a tiny place set in a nest of similar oldworld buildings behind the clothes. Harker led him into a little parlor, comfortable and snug, wherein were several shelves of books of a curiously legal and professional-looking aspect, some old pictures, and a cabinet of odds and ends. Stowed away in dark corner, the old man motioned him to an easy chair, and going over to a cupboard produced a decanter of whiskey and a box of cigars. We can have a peaceful and comfortable talk here, doctor, he remarked as he sat down near Bryce after fetching glasses and soda water. I live all alone like a hermit. My bit of works done by a woman who only looks in of a morning, so we’re all by ourselves. Light your cigar, same as that I gave you at Barthorp. Um, well, now,” he continued as Bryce settled down to listen. There’s a question I want to put to you strictly between ourselves strictest of confidence. You know it was you who was called to Braden by Vanna and you were left alone with Braden’s body. Well, admitted Bryce, suddenly growing suspicious. What of it? Harker edged his chair a little closer to his guests and leaned towards him. What? He asked in a whisper. What have you done with that scrap of paper that you took out of Braden’s purse? Chapter 14. from the past. If any remarkably keen and able observer of the odd characteristics of humanity had been present in Harker’s little parlor at that moment, watching him and his visitor, he would have been struck by what happened when the old man put this sudden and pointblank question to the young one. for Harker put the question, though in a whisper, in no more than a casual, almost friendly confidential way, and Bryce never showed by the start of a finger or the flicker of an eyelash that he felt it to be what he really knew it to be, the most surprising and startling question he had ever had put to him. Instead, he looked his questioner calmly in the eyes and put a question in his turn. “Who are you, Mr. Harker?” asked Bryce quietly. Harker laughed almost gleefully. Yes, you have a right to ask that, he said. Of course. Glad you take it that way. Now, you’ll do. I’ll qualify it then, added Bryce. It’s not who, it’s what are you? Harker waved his cigar at the bookshelves in front of which his visitor sat. Take a look at my collection of literature, doctor, he said. What do you think of it? Bryce turned and leisurely inspected one shelf after another. seems to consist of little else but criminal cases and legal handbooks,” he remarked quietly. “I begin to suspect you, Mr. Harker. They say here in Rochester, that you’re a retired tradesman. I think you’re a retired policeman of the detective branch.” Harker laughed again. “No man has ever crossed my threshold since I came to settle down here,” he said. You’re the first person I’ve ever asked, and with one notable exception, I’ve never even had company the librarian here. I’m a hermit. But you were a detective, suggested Bryce. I for a good five and 20 years, replied Harker. And pretty well known, too, sir. But my question, doctor, all between ourselves. I’ll ask you one then, said Bryce. How do you know I took a scrap of paper from Braden’s purse? Because I know that he had such a paper in his purse the night he came to the miter, answered Harker, and was certain to have it there next morning. And because I also know that you were left alone with the body for some minutes after Vanna fetched you to it, and that when Braden’s clothing and effects were searched by Mitch, the paper wasn’t there, so of course you took it. Doesn’t matter to me that you did except that I know from knowing that that you’re on a similar game to my own which is why you went down to Leicester. You knew Braden asked Bryce. I knew him answered Harker. You saw him spoke with him here in Rochester? Suggested Bryce. He was here in this room in that chair from 5 minutes 9 to close on 10:00 the night before his death replied Harker. Bryce, who was quietly appreciating the Havana cigar which the old man had given him, picked up his glass, took a drink, and settled himself in his easy chair as if he meant to stay there a while. I think we’d better talk confidentially, Mr. Harker, he said. Precisely what we are doing, Dr. Bryce, replied Harker. All right, my friend, said Bryce laconically. Now we understand each other. So, do you know who John Braden really was? Yes, replied Harker promptly. He was in reality John Brake, ex-bank manager, ex-convict. Do you know if he’s any relatives here in Rochester? Inquired Bryce. Yes, said Harker. The boy and girl who live with Ransford their Brick’s son and daughter. Did Brick know that when he came here? Continued Bryce. No, he didn’t. He hadn’t the least idea of it, responded Harker. Had you then? asked Bryce. No, not until later. A little later, replied Harker. You found it out at Barorp, suggested Bryce. Not a bit of it. I worked it out here after break was dead, said Harker. I went to Barthorp on quite different business breaks business. Ah, said Bryce. He looked the old detective quietly in the eyes. You’d better tell me all about it, he added. If we’re both going to tell each other all about it, stipulated Harker. That’s settled, ascented Bryce. Hawker smoked thoughtfully for a moment and seemed to be thinking. I’d better go back to the beginning, he said. But first, what do you know about break? I know you went down to Barthorp to find out what you could. How far did your searches take you? I know that break married a girl from Braden Medworth that he took her to London where he was manager of a branch bank that he got into trouble and was sentenced to 10 years penal servitude, answered Bryce. Together with some small details into which we needn’t go at present. Well, as long as you know all that, there’s a common basis and a common starting point, remarked Harker. So, I’ll begin at Break’s trial. It was I who arrested Blake. There was no trouble, no bother. He’d been taken unawares by an inspector of the bank. He’d a considerable deficiency. Couldn’t make it good. Couldn’t or wouldn’t explain except by half sullen hints that he’d been cruy deceived. There was no defense. Couldn’t be. His council said that he could. I’ve read the account of the trial, interrupted Bryce. All right, then. You know as much as I can tell you on that point, said Harker. He got, as you say, 10 years. I saw him just before he was removed and asked him if there was anything I could do for him about his wife and children. I’d never seen them. I arrested him at the bank, and of course, he was never out of custody after that. He answered in a queer curt way that his wife and children were being looked after. I heard incidentally that his wife had left home or was from home. There was something mysterious about it either as soon as he was arrested or before. Anyway, he said nothing and from that moment I never set eyes on him again until I met him in the street here in Rochester the other night when he came to the miter. I knew him at once and he knew me. We met under one of those big standard lamps in the marketplace. I was following my usual practice of having an evening walk last thing before going to bed and we stopped and stared at each other. Then he came forward with his hand out. And we shook hands. This is an odd thing. He said, “You’re the very man I wanted to find. Come somewhere where it’s quiet and let me have a word with you.” So I brought him here. Bryce was all attention now, for once he was devoting all his faculties to tense and absorbed concentration on what another man could tell, leaving reflections and conclusions on what he heard until all had been told. I brought him here, repeated Harker. I told him I’d been retired and was living here, as he saw, alone. I asked him no questions about himself. I could see he was a well-dressed, apparently wellto-do man. And presently, he began to tell me about himself. He said that after he’d finished his term, he left England and for some time traveled in Canada and the United States, and had gone then on to New Zealand, and afterwards to Australia, where he’d settled down and begun speculating in wool. I said, I hoped he’d done well. Yes, he said. He done very nicely. And then he gave me a quiet dig in the ribs. I’ll tell you one thing I’ve done, Harker. He said, you were very polite and considerate to me when I’d my trouble, so I don’t mind telling you. I paid the bank every penny of that money they lost through my foolishness at that time. Every penny four years ago with interest, and I’ve got their receipt. Delighted to hear it. Mister, is it the same name still? I said, “My name, ever since I left England,” he said, giving me a look, “is Braden John Braden.” “Yes,” he went on. “I paid him, though I never had one penny of the money I was fool enough to take for the time being. Not one half penny.” “Who had it, Mr. Braden?” I asked him, thinking that he’d perhaps tell after all that time. “Never mind, my lad,” he answered. “It’ll come out yet. Never mind that. Now, I’ll tell you why I wanted to see you. The fact is, I’ve only been a few hours in England, so to speak, but I’d thought of you and wondered where I could get hold of you. You’re the only man of your profession I ever met, you see, he added with a laugh. And I want a bit of help in that way. Well, Mr. Braden, I said, I’ve retired, but if it’s an easy job, it’s one you can do. Easy enough, he said. It’s just this. I met a man in Australia who’s extremely anxious to get some news of another man named Falcon Array who hails from Barthorp in Leicester. I promise to make inquiries for him. Now I have strong reasons why I don’t want to go near Barthorp. Barthorp has unpleasant memories and associations for me and I don’t want to be seen there. But this thing’s got to be personal investigation. Will you go here for me? I’ll make it worth your while. All you’ve got to do, he went on, is to go there, see the police authorities, town officials, anybody that knows the place, and ask them if they can tell you anything of one Falconer Ray, who was at one time a small estate agent in Barorp. Left the place about 17 years ago, maybe 18, and is believed to have recently gone back to the neighborhood. That’s all. Get what information you can and write it to me. care of my bankers in London. Give me a sheet of paper and I’ll put down particulars for you.” Harker paused at this point and nodded his head at an old bureau which stood in a corner of his room, the sheet of papers there, he said. “It’s got on it in his writing a brief memorandum of what he wanted and the address of his bankers.” When he’d given it to me, he put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a purse in which I could see he was carrying plenty of money. He took out some notes. “Here’s £5 and 20 on account, Harker,” he said. “You might have to spend a bit. Don’t be afraid plenty more where that comes from. You’ll do it soon,” he asked. “Yes, I’ll do it, Mr. Braden,” I answered. “It’ll be a bit of a holiday for me.” “That’s all right,” he said. I’m delighted I came across you. Well, you couldn’t be more delighted than I was surprised, I said. I never thought to see you in Rochester. What brought you here, if one may ask sightseeing? He laughed at that, and he pulled out his purse again. I’ll show you something. A secret, he said, and he took a bit of folded paper out of his purse. What do you make of that? He asked. Can you read Latin? No, except a word or two, I said. But I know a man who can. Ah, never mind, said he. I know enough Latin for this, and it’s a secret. However, it won’t be a secret long, and you’ll hear all about it. And with that, he put the bit of paper in his purse again, and we began talking about other matters. And before long, he said he’d promised to have a chat with the gentleman at the miter, whom he’d come along with in the train, and away he went, saying he’d see me before we left the town. Did he say how long he was going to stop here? asked Bryce. Two or three days, replied Harker. Did he mention Ransford? Inquired Bryce. Never, said Harker. Did he make any reference to his wife and children? Not the slightest, nor to the hint that his council threw out at the trial. Never referred to that time except in the way I told you that he hadn’t a penny of the money himself, and that he’d himself refunded it. Bryce meditated a while. He was somewhat puzzled by certain points in the old detective story, and he saw now that there was much more mystery in the Braden affair than he had at first believed. “Well,” he asked after a while, “did you see him again.” “Not alive,” replied Harker, “I saw him dead, and I held my tongue and have held it. But something happened that day.” After I heard of the accident, I went into the Crown and Cushion Tavern. The fact was, I went to get a taste of whiskey for the news had upset me. And in that long bar of theirs, I saw a man whom I knew, a man whom I knew for a fact to have been a fellow convict of Brakes, name of Glassdale forgery. He got the same sentence that Break got about the same time, was in the same convict prison with Break, and he and Break would be released about the same date. There was no doubt about his identity. I never forget a face. Even after 30 years, I’d tell one. I saw him in that bar before he saw me, and I took a careful look at him. He too, like break, was very well-dressed and very prosperous looking. He turned as he set down his glass and caught sight of me, and he knew me. Mind you, he’d been through my hands in times past, and he instantly moved to a side door and vanished. I went out and looked up and down he’d gone. I found out afterwards by a little quiet inquiry that he’d gone straight to the station, boarded the first train, there was one just giving out to the junction and left the city. But I can lay hands on him. You’ve kept this quiet too, asked Bryce. Just so I have my own game to play, replied Harker. This talk with you is part of it. You come in now. I’ll tell you why presently. But first, as you know, I went to Barthorp, for though break was dead, I felt I must go for this reason. I was certain that he wanted that information for himself. The man in Australia was a fiction, I went then and learned nothing except that this fulcan array had been in his break, said a barought man years ago. He’d left the town 18 years since, and nobody knew anything about him. So I came home. And now then, doctor, your turn. What were you after down there at Barthorp? Bryce meditated his answer for a good five minutes. He had always intended to play the game off his own bat, but he had heard and seen enough since entering Harker’s little room to know that he was in company with an intellect which was keener and more subtle than his, and that it would be all to his advantage to go in with the man who had vast and deep experience. And so he made a clean breast of all he had done in the way of investigation, leaving his motive completely aside. “You’ve got a theory, of course,” observed Harker, after listening quietly to all that Bryce could tell. “Naturally, you have. You couldn’t accumulate all that without getting one.” “Well,” admitted Bryce, “Honestly, I can’t say that I have, but I can see what theory there might be. this that Ransford was the man who deceived Brick, that he ran away with Brick’s wife, that she’s dead, and that he’s brought up the children in ignorance of all that, and therefore, and therefore, interrupted Harker with a smile. That when he and Break met as you seem to think they did, Ransford flung Break through that open doorway. That Kishaw witnessed it, that Ransford’s found out about Kishaw, and that Kolishaw has been poisoned by Ransford. Eh, that’s a theory that seems to be supported by facts, said Bryce. It’s a theory that would doubtless suit men like Mitchington, said the old detective with another smile. But not me, sir. Mind you, I don’t say there isn’t something in it. There’s doubtless a lot. But the mystery is a lot thicker than just that. And Break didn’t come here to find Ransford. He came because of the secret in that scrap of paper. And as you’ve got it, doctor out with it. Bryce saw no reason for concealment, and producing the scrap of paper, laid it on the table between himself and his host. Hark peered inquisitively at it. “Latin,” he said. “You can read it, of course. What does it say?” Bryce repeated a literal translation. “I found the place,” he added. “I found it this morning. Now, what do you suppose this means?” Harker was looking hard at the two lines of writing. That’s a big question, doctor, he answered. But I’ll go so far as to say this. When we found out what it does mean, we shall know a lot more than we know now. Chapter 15. The double offer. Bryce, who was deriving a considerable and peculiar pleasure from his secret interview with the old detective, smiled at Harker’s last remark. That’s a bit of a platitude, isn’t it? He suggested. Of course we shall know a lot more when we do know a lot more. I set store by platitude, sir, retorted Harker. You can’t repeat an established platitude too often. It’s got the hallmark of good use on it. But now, till we do know more, you’ve no doubt been thinking a lot about this matter, Dr. Bryce, hasn’t it struck you that there’s one feature in connection with break or Braden’s visit to Rochester to which nobody’s given any particular attention up to now so far as we know at any rate. What? demanded Bryce. This, replied Harker. Why did he wish to see the Duke of Sax instead? He certainly did want to see him, and as soon as possible. You’ll remember that his grace was questioned about that at the inquest, and could give no explanation. He knew nothing of Breake, and couldn’t suggest any reason why Break should wish to have an interview with him. “But I can, you!” exclaimed Bryce. “I answered Harker. And it’s this. I spoke just now of that man Glastale. Now you of course have no knowledge of him. And as you don’t keep yourself posted in criminal history, you don’t know what his offense was. You said forgery, replied Bryce. Just so forgery, asented Harker. And the signature that he forged was the Duke of Saxonsteads. As a matter of fact, he was the Duke’s London estate agent. he got wrong somehow and he forged the Duke’s name to a check. Now then, considering who Glastale is, and that he was certainly a fellow convict of Brakes, and that I myself saw him here in Rochester on the day of Bra’s death, what’s the conclusion to be drawn that Brick wanted to see the Duke on some business of Glass Dales? Without a doubt, it may have been that he and Glastale wanted to visit the Duke together. Bryce silently considered this suggestion for a while. You said just now that Glass Dale could be traced, he remarked at last. Traced? Yes, replied Harker. So long as he’s in England. Why not set about it? Suggested Bryce. Not yet, said Harker. There’s things to do before that. And the first thing is, let’s get to know what the mystery of that scrap of paper is. You say you’ve found Richard Jenkins’s tomb. Very well. Well, then the thing to do is to find out if anything is hidden there. Try it tomorrow night. Better go by yourself after dark. If you find anything, let me know. And then then we can decide on a next step. But between now and then, there’ll be the inquest on this man Kishaw. And about that, a word in your ear. Say as little as ever you can. After all, you know nothing beyond what you saw. and we mustn’t meet and talk in public after you’ve done that bit of exploring in Paradise tomorrow night. Come round here and we’ll consider matters.” There was little that Bryce could say or could be asked to say at the inquest on the Mason’s laborer next morning. Public interest and excitement was as keen about Kolshaw’s mysterious death as about Braden’s, for it was already rumored through the town that if Braden had not met with his death when he came to Rochester, Kishaw would still be alive. The coroner’s court was once more packed, once more there was the same atmosphere of mystery, but the proceedings were of a very different nature to those which had attended the inquest on Braden. The foreman under whose orders Kishaw had been working gave particulars of the dead man’s work on the morning of his death. He had been instructed to clear away an accumulation of rubbish which had gathered at the foot of the south wall of the nave in consequence of some recent repairs to the masonry. There was a full day’s work before him. All day he would be in and out of paradise with his barrerow, wheeling away the rubbish he gathered up. The foreman had looked in on him once or twice. He had seen him just before noon when he appeared to be in his usual health. He had made no complaint at any rate. Asked if he had happened to notice where Kishaw had set down his dinner basket and his tin bottle while he worked. He replied that it so happened that he had he remembered seeing both bottle and basket and the man’s jacket deposited on one of the box tombs under a certain utree which he could point out if necessary. Bryce’s account of his finding of Kishaw amounted to no more than a bare recital of facts, nor was much time spent in questioning the two doctors who had conducted the post-mortem examination. Their evidence, Tur in particular, referred solely to the cause of death. The man had been poisoned by a dose of hydrocyanic acid, which in their opinion had been taken only a few minutes before his body was discovered by Dr. Bryce. It had probably been a dose which would cause instantaneous death. There were no traces of the poison in the remains of his dinner, nor in the liquid in his tin bottle, which was old tea. But of the cause of his sudden death, there was no more doubt than of the effects. Ransford had been in the court from the outset of the proceedings, and when the medical evidence had been given, he was called. Bryce, watching him narrowly, saw that he was suffering from repressed excitement, and that that excitement was as much due to anger as to anything else. His face was set and stern, and he looked at the coroner with an expression which portended something not precisely clear at that moment. Bryce trying to analyze it said to himself that he shouldn’t be surprised if a scene followed Ransford looked like a man who is bursting to say something in no unmistakable fashion. But at first he answered the questions put to him calmly and decisively. When this man’s clothing was searched, observed the coroner, a box of pills was found, Dr. Ransford, on which your writing appears. Had you been attending him professionally? Yes, replied Ransford. Both Klesure and his wife, or rather to be exact, I had been in attendance on the wife for some weeks. A day or two before his death, Kishaw complained to me of indigestion following on his meals. I gave him some digestive pills. The pills you speak of, no doubt. These? Asked the coroner, passing over the box which Mitchon had found. Precisely, agreed Ransford. That at any rate is the box, and I suppose those to be the pills. You made them up yourself, inquired the coroner. I did. I dispense all my own medicines. Is it possible that the poison we have bearded off just now could get into one of those pills by accident? Utterly impossible under my hands at any rate, answered Ransford. Still, I suppose it could have been administered in a pill, suggested the coroner. It might, agreed Ransford, but he added with a significant glance at the medical men who had just given evidence. It was not so administered in this case as the previous witnesses very well know, the coroner looked round him, and waited a moment. You are at liberty to explain that last remark, he said at last. That is, if you wish to do so, certainly, answered Ransford with elacrity. Those pills are, as you will observe, coated, and the man would swallow them whole immediately after his food. Now, it would take some little time for a pill to dissolve, to disintegrate, to be digested. If Kishaw took one of my pills as soon as he had eaten his dinner, according to instructions, and if poison had been in that pill, he would not have died at once, as he evidently did. Death would probably have been delayed some little time until the pill had dissolved. But according to the evidence you have had before you, he died quite suddenly while eating his dinner or immediately after it. I am not legally represented here. I don’t consider it at all necessary, but I ask you to recall Dr. Coats and to put this question to him. Did he find one of those digestive pills in this man’s stomach? The coroner turned somewhat dubiously to the two doctors who had performed the autopsy. But before he could speak, the superintendent of police rose and began to whisper to him, and after a conversation between them, he looked round at the jury, every member of which had evidently been much struck by Ransford’s suggestion. At this stage, he said, “It will be necessary to adjourn. I shall adjourn the inquiry for a week, gentlemen. You will, Ransford, still standing in the witness box, suddenly lost control of himself. He uttered a sharp exclamation and smoked the ledge before him smartly with his open hand. I protest against that, he said vehemently. Emphatically, I protest. You first of all make a suggestion which tells against me. Then, when I demand that a question shall be put which is of immense importance to my interests, you close down the inquiry, even if only for the moment. That is grossly unfair and unjust. You are mistaken, said the coroner. At the adjourned inquiry, the two medical men can be recalled, and you will have the opportunity, or your solicitor will have, of asking any questions you like for the present. For the present you have me under suspicion, interrupted Ransford hotly. You know it. I say this with due respect to your office as well as I do. Suspicion is rife in the city against me. Rumor is being spread secretly and I am certain from the police who ought to know better. And I will not be silenced, Mr. Coroner. I take this public opportunity, as I am on oath, of saying that I know nothing whatever of the causes of the deaths of either Kolishawore or of Braden upon my solemn oath. The inquest is adjourned to this day weak, said the coroner quietly. Ransford suddenly stepped down from the witness box and without word or glance at anyone there walked with set face and determined look out of the court and the excited spectators gathering into groups immediately began to discuss his vigorous outburst and to take sides for and against him. Bryce, judging it advisable to keep away from Mitchton just then, and for similar reasons keeping away from Harker, also went out of the crowded building alone to be joined in the street outside by Sackville Bonham, whom he had noticed in court in company with his stepfather, Mr. Foliot. Foliot, Bryce had observed, had stopped behind, exchanging some conversation with the coroner. Sackville came up to Bryce with a knowing shake of the hand. He was one of those very young men who have a habit of suggesting that their fund of knowledge is extensive and peculiar, and Bryce waited for a manifestation. Queer business all that, Bryce, observed Sackville confidentially. Of course, Ransford is a perfect ass. Think so? Remarked Bryce with an inflection which suggested that Sackville’s opinion on anything was as valuable as the attorney generals. That’s how it strikes you, is it? Impossible that it could strike one in any other way. You know, answered Sackville with fine and lofty superiority. Ransford should have taken immediate steps to clear himself of any suspicion. It’s ridiculous considering his position guardian to to Miss Bury for instance that he should allow such rumors to circulate. By God, sir, if it had been me, I’d have stopped him before they left the parish pump. Ah, said Bryce. And how? Made an example of somebody, replied Sackville with emphasis. I believe there’s law in this country, isn’t there? Law against liel and slander and that sort of thing, eh? Oh, yes. Not been much time for that yet, remarked Bryce. Piles of time, retorted Sackville, swinging his stick vigorously. No, sir. Ransford is an ass. However, if a man won’t do things for himself, well, his friends must do something for him. Ransford, of course, must be pulled dragged out of this infernal hole. Of course, he suspected. But my stepfather, he’s going to take a hand. and my stepfather Bryce is a devilish cute old hand at a game of this sort. Nobody doubts Mr. Foliad’s abilities I’m sure said Bryce but you don’t mind saying how is he going to take a hand stir things towards a clearing up announced Sackville promptly have the whole thing gone into thoroughly there are matters that haven’t been touched on yet you’ll see my boy glad to hear it said Bryce but why should Mr. Folly had be so particular about clearing Ransford. Sackville swung his stick and pulled up his collar and jerked his nose a trifle higher. “Oh well,” he said, “f it’s a pretty well understood thing, don’t you know, between myself and Miss Bury, you know, and of course we couldn’t have any suspicions attaching to her guardian, could we? Now, family interest. Don’t you know Caesar’s wife and all that sort of thing, eh?” I see, answered Bryce quietly, sort of family arrangement. With Ransford’s consent and knowledge, of course. Ransford won’t even be consulted, said Zackvilley. My stepfather sharp man that, Bryce, he’ll do things in his own fashion. You look out for sudden revelations. I will, replied Bryce. Bye-bye. He turned off to his rooms, wondering how much of truth there was in the fatuous Sackville’s remarks, and was there some mystery still undret by himself and Harker? There might be he was still under the influence of Ransford’s indignant and dramatic assertion of his innocence. Would Ransford have allowed himself an outburst of that sort if he had not been, as he said, utterly ignorant of the immediate cause of Braden’s death? Now Bryce all through was calculating for his own purposes on Ransford’s share full or partial in that death if Ransford really knew nothing whatever about it where did his Bryce’s theory come in and how would his present machinations result and more if Ransford’s assertion were true and if Vanna’s story of the hand seen for an instant in the archway were also true and Vanna was persisting in it. Then who was the man who flung Braden to his death that morning? He realized that instead of straightening out, things were becoming more and more complicated. But he realized something else. On the surface there was a strong case of suspicion against Ransford. It had been suggested that very morning before a coroner and his jury, it would grow. The police were already permeated with suspicion and distrust. Would it not pay him Bryce to encourage to help it? He had his own score to pay off against Ransford. He had his own schemes as regards Mary Bury. Anyway, he was not going to share in any attempts to clear the man who had bundled him out of his house unceremoniously. He would b his time. And in the meantime, there were other things to be done, one of them that very night. But before Bryce could engage in his secret task of excavating a small portion of paradise in the rear of Richard Jenkins’s tomb, another strange development came. As the dark fell over the old city that night, and he was thinking of setting out on his mission, Mitch came in carrying two sheets of paper, obviously damp from the press, in his hand. He looked at Bryce with an expression of wonder. “Here’s a queer go,” he said. I can’t make this out at all. Look at these big hand bills. But perhaps you’ve seen them. They’re being posted all over the city. We’ve had a bundle of them thrown in on us. I haven’t been out since lunch, remarked Bryce. What are they? Mitch spread out the two papers on the table, pointing from one to the other. You see, he said, £500 reward, £1,000 reward, and both out at the same time from different sources. What sources? asked Bryce, bending over the bills. Ah, I see. One signed by Fipps and Maynard, the other by Beachcraft. Odd. Certainly. Odd, exclaimed Mitchington. I should think so. But do you see, doctor? That 1500 reward is offered for information of any nature relative to the deaths of John Braden and James Kleshaw. Both or either. That amount will be paid for satisfactory information by Fipps amp Maynard and Fipps amp Maynard are Ransford solicitors. That bill, sir, comes from him. And now the other, the,000 one that offers the reward to anyone who can give definite information as to the circumstances attending the death of John Braden to be paid by Mr. Beachcraftoft. And he’s Mr. Foliot’s solicitor. So that comes from Mr. Foliot. What has he to do with it? And are these two putting their heads together, or are these bills quite independent of each other? Hang me if I understand it. Bryce read and reread the contents of the two bills. And then he thought for a while before speaking, “Well,” he said at last, “there’s probably this in it. The Foliots are very wealthy people. Mrs. Foliot it’s pretty wellnown wants her son to marry Miss Bury Dr. Ransford’s ward. Probably she doesn’t wish any suspicion to hang over the family. That’s all I can suggest. In the other case, Ransford wants to clear himself. For don’t forget this, Mitch. Somewhere somebody may know something. Only something. But that something might clear Ransford of the suspicion that’s undoubtedly been cast upon him. If you’re thinking to get a strong case against Ransford, you’ve got your work set. He gave your theory a nasty knock this morning by his few words about that pill. Did Coats and Everest find a pill now? Not at liberty to say, sir, answered. At present, anyway. Um, I dislike these private offers of reward. It means that those who make them get hold of information which is kept back from us. Do you see? They’re inconvenient. Then he went away, and Bryce, after waiting a while, until night had settled down, slipped quietly out of the house, and set off for the gloom of paradise. Chapter 16. Beforehand. In accordance with his undeniable capacity for contriving and scheming, Bryce had made due and careful preparations for his visit to the tomb of Richard Jenkins. Even in the momentary confusion following upon his discovery of Kolshaw’s dead body, he had been sufficiently alive to his own immediate purposes to notice that the tomb, a very ancient and dilapidated structure, stood in the midst of a small expanse of stone pavement between the U trees and the wall of the nave. He had noticed also that the pavement consisted of small squares of stone, some of which bore initials and dates. A sharp glance at the presumed whereabouts of the particular spot which he wanted, as indicated in the scrap of paper taken from Braden’s purse, showed him that he would have to raise one of those small squares, possibly two or three of them, and so he had furnished himself with a short crowbar of tempered steel, specially purchased at the Iron Mongers, and with a small bullseye lantern. Had he been arrested and searched as he made his way towards the cathedral precincts, he might reasonably have been suspected of a design to break into the treasury and appropriate the various ornaments for which Rochester was famous. But Bryce feared neither arrest nor observation. During his residence in Rochester, he had done a good deal of prowling about the old city at night, and he knew that paradise, at any time after dark, was a deserted place. Folk might cross from the close archway to the wicked gate by the outer path, but no one would penetrate within the thick screen of you and Cyprus when night had fallen. And now, in early summer, the screen of trees and bushes was so thick in leaf that once within it foliage on one side, the great walls of the nave on the other. There was little likelihood of any person overlooking his doings while he made his investigation. He anticipated a swift and quiet job to be done in a few minutes. But there was another individual in Rochester who knew just as much of the geography of Paradise as Peton Bryce knew. Dick Bury and Betty Camp had of late progressed out of the school boy and schoolgirl hailfellow well- met stage to the first dawnings of love and in spite of their frequent meetings had begun a romantic correspondence between each other the joy and mystery of which was increased a hundfold by a secret method of exchange of these missives. Just within the wicked gate entrance of paradise, there was an old monument wherein was a convenient cavity dick buri’s ready wits transformed this into love’s post office. In it he regularly placed letters for Betty. Betty stuffed into it letters for him. And on this particular evening Dick had gone to paradise to collect a possible mail. And as Bryce walked leisurely up the narrow path, enclosed by trees and old masonry which led from Friy Lane to the ancient enclosure, Dick turned a corner and ran full into him. In the light of the single lamp which illumined the path, the two recovered themselves and looked at each other. “Hello,” said Bryce. “What’s your hurry, young Bury?” Dick, who was panting for breath, more from excitement than haste, drew back and looked at Bryce. Up to then he knew nothing much against Bryce, whom he had rather liked in the fashion in which boys sometimes like their seniors, and he was not indisposed to confide in him. Hello, he replied, I say, where are you off to? Nowhere strolling round, answered Bryce. No particular purpose. Why? You weren’t going in there? asked Dick, jerking a thumb towards paradise. In there, exclaimed Bryce. Good lord, no. Dreary enough in the daytime. What should I be going in there for? Dick seized Bryce’s coat sleeve and dragged him aside. I say, he whispered. There’s something up in there. A search of some sort. Bryce started in spite of an effort to keep unconcerned. A search in there? He said, “What do you mean?” Dick pointed amongst the trees, and Bryce saw the faint glimmer of a light. “I was in there just now,” said Dick. And some men, three or four, came along. They’re in there, close up by the nave, just where you found that chap Kishaw. They’re digging or something of that sort. Digging, muttered Bryce. Digging? Something like it. Anyhow, replied Dick. Listen. Bryce heard the ring of metal on stone, and an unpleasant conviction stole over him that he was being forstalled, that somebody was beforehand with him, and he cursed himself for not having done the previous night what he had left undone till this night. Who are they? He asked. Did you see them? Their faces? Not their faces, answered Dick. Only their figures in the gloom. But I heard’s voice. Police then, said Bryce. What on earth are they after? Look here, whispered Dick, pulling at Bryce’s arm again. Come on, I know how to get in there without their seeing us. You follow me. Bryce followed readily, and Dick, stepping through the wicked gate, seized his companion’s wrist, and led him amongst the bushes in the direction of the spot from whence came the metallic sounds. He walked with the step of a cat, and Bryce took pains to follow his example. And presently, from behind a screen of cypresses, they looked out on the expanse of flagging in the midst of which stood the tomb of Richard Jenkins. Round about that tomb were five men whose faces were visible enough in the light, thrown by a couple of strong lamps, one of which stood on the tomb itself, while the other was set on the ground. Four out of the five the two watchers recognized at once. One kneeling on the flags and busy with a small crowbar similar to that which Bryce carried inside his overcoat was the master mason of the cathedral. Another standing near him was Mitch. A third was a clergyman, one of the lesser dignitaries of the chapter. A fourth whose presence made Bryce start for the second time that evening was the Duke of Saxonstead. But the fifth was a stranger, a tall man who stood between Mitch and the Duke, evidently paying anxious attention to the master mason’s proceedings. He was no right man. Bryce was convinced of that, and a moment later he was convinced of another equally certain fact. Whatever these five men were searching for, they had no clear or accurate idea of its exact whereabouts. The master mason was taking up the small squares of flag stone with his crowbar one by one from the outer edge of the foot of the old box tomb. As he removed each, he probed the earth beneath it. And Bryce, who had instinctively realized what was happening, and knew that somebody else than himself was in possession of the secret of the scrap of paper, saw that it would be some time before they arrived at the precise spot indicated in the Latin directions. He quietly drew back and tugged at Dick Bury. “Stop here and keep quiet,” he whispered when they had retreated out of all danger of being overheard. “Watch him. I want to fetch somebody. Want to know who that stranger is. You don’t know him.” “Never seen him before,” replied Dick. “I say come quietly back. Don’t give it away. I want to know what it’s all about.” Bryce squeezed the lad’s arm by way of assurance and made his way back through the bushes. He wanted to get hold of Harker, and at once, and he hurried round to the old man’s house, and without ceremony, walked into his parlor. Harker, evidently expecting him, and meanwhile amusing himself with his pipe and book, rose from his chair as the younger man entered. “Found anything?” he asked. “We’re done?” answered Bryce. I was a fool not to go last night. We’re for stalled, my friend. That’s about it. By whom? Inquired Harker. There are five of them at it now, replied Bryce. Mitch, a mason, one of the cathedral clergy, a stranger, and the Duke of Saxonstead. What do you think of that? Harker suddenly started as if a new light had dawned on him. The Duke, he exclaimed. You don’t say so. My conscience now I wonder if that can really be. Upon my word, I’d never thought of it. Thought of what? demanded Bryce. Never mind. Tell you later, said Harker. At present, is there any chance of getting a look at them? That’s what I came for, retorted Bryce. I’ve been watching them with young Bury. He put me up to it. Come on, I want to see if you know the man who’s a stranger. Hark across the room to a chest of drawers, and after some rumaging, pulled something out. here,” he said, handing some articles to Bryce. “Put those on over your boots, thick felt over shoes. You could walk around your own mother’s bedroom in those, and she’d never hear you. I’ll do the same.” A stranger, you say. “Well, this is a proof that somebody knows the secret of that scrap of paper besides us, doctor. They don’t know the exact spot,” growled Bryce, who was chafing at having been done out of his discovery. “But they’ll find it, whatever may be there.” He led Harker back to paradise and to the place where he had left Dick Bury, whom they approached so quietly that Bryce was by the lad’s side before Dick knew he was there. And Harker, after one glance at the ring of faces, drew Bryce back and put his lips close to his ear and breathed a name in an almost imperceptible yet clear whisper. Glastale. Bryce started for the third time. Glastale, the man whom Harker had seen in Rochester within an hour or so of Braden’s death, the ex-convict, the forger who had forged the Duke of Saxonstead’s name, and there, standing, apparently quite at his ease by the Duke’s side. What did it all mean? There was no explanation of what it meant to be had from the man whom Bryson Harker and Dick Bury secretly watched from behind the screen of cypress trees. Four of them watched in silence or with no more than a whispered word now and then while the fifth worked. This man worked methodically, replacing each stone as he took it up and examined the soil beneath it. So far, nothing had resulted, but he was by that time working at some distance from the tomb, and Bryce, who had an exceedingly accurate idea of where the spot might be, as indicated in the measurements on the scrap of paper, nudged Harker as the master mason began to take up the last of the small flags. And suddenly there was a movement amongst the watchers, and the master mason looked up from his job, and motioned Mitchington to pass him a trowel, which lay at a little distance. “Something here,” he said loudly enough to reach the ears of Bryce and his companions. “Not so deep down, neither, gentlemen. A few vigorous applications of the trowel a few lumps of earth cast out of the cavity, and the master mason put in his hand, and drew forth a small parcel, which in the light of the lamp held close to it by Mitchington, looked to be done up in coarse sacking, secured by great blotches of black ceiling wax. And now it was Harker who nudged Bryce, drawing his attention to the fact that the parcel handed by the master mason to Mitchton was at once passed on by Mitchington to the Duke of Saxonstead. Who, it was very plain to see, appeared to be as much delighted as surprised at receiving it. “Let us go to your office, Inspector,” he said. “We’ll examine the contents there. Let us all go at once.” The three figures behind the cypress trees remained immovable and silent until the five searchers had gone away with their lamps and tools, and the sound of their retreating footsteps in Friary Lane had died out. Then Dick Bury moved and began to slip off, and Bryce reached out a hand and took him by the shoulder. “I say Bury,” he said. “Going to tell all that.” Harker got in a word before Dick could answer. No matter if he does, doctor, he remarked quietly. Whatever it is, the whole town will know of it by tomorrow. They’ll not keep it back. Bryce let Dick go, and the boy immediately darted off in the direction of the clothes, while the two men went towards Harker’s house. Neither spoke until they were safe in the old detective’s little parlor. Then Harker, turning up his lamp, looked at Bryce and shook his head. “It’s a good job I’ve retired,” he said almost sadly. I’m getting too old for my trade, doctor. Once upon a time, I should have been fit to kick myself for not having twigged the meaning of this business sooner than I have done. Have you twigged it? Demanded Bryce almost scornfully. You’re a good deal cleverer than I am if you have, for hang me if I know what it means. I do, answered Hawker. He opened a drawer in his desk and drew out a scrapbook filled, as Bryce saw a moment later, with cutings from newspapers, all duly arranged and indexed. The old man glanced at the index, turned to a certain page, and put his finger on an entry. “There you are,” he said. “And that’s only one. There are several more. They’ll tell you in detail what I can tell you in a few words and what I ought to have remembered. It’s 15 years since the famous robbery at Saxonstead which has never been accounted for. Robbery of the duchess’s diamonds. One of the cleverest burglaries ever known, doctor. They were got one night after a grand ball there. No arrest was ever made. They were never traced. And I’ll lay all I’m worth to a penny piece that the Duke and those men are gladding their eyes with the sight of them just now in Mitchton’s office. and that the information that they were where they’ve just been found was given to the Duke by Glastale. Glastale, that man, exclaimed Bryce, who was puzzling his brain over possible developments. That man, sir, repeated Harker, that’s why Glastale was in Rochester the day of Braden’s death, and that’s why Braden or break came to Rochester at all. He and Glastale, of course, had somehow come into possession of the secret, and no doubt meant to tell the Duke together and get the reward. There was 95,000 offered, and as breaks dead, Glastale spoken. But here the old man paused and gave his companion a shrewd look. The question still remains, how did break come to his end? Chapter 17. To be shadowed. Dick Bury burst in upon his sister and Ransford with a budget of news such as it rarely fell to the lot of romance loving 17 to tell. Secret and mysterious digging up of graveyards by night discovery of sealed packets the contents of which might only be guessed at the whole thing observed by hidden spectators. These were things he had read of in fiction but had never expected to have the luck to see in real life. and being gifted with some powers of imagination and of narrative, he made the most of his story to a pair of highly attentive listeners, each of whom had his and her own reasons for particular attention. “More mystery,” remarked Mary, when Dick’s story had come to an end. What a pity they didn’t open the parcel. She looked at Ransford, who was evidently in deep thought. “I suppose it will all come out,” she suggested. Sure to, he answered and turned to Dick. You say Bryce fetched old Harker after you and Bryce had watched these operations a bit. Did he say why he fetched him? Never said anything as to his reasons, answered Dick. But I rather guessed at the end that Bryce wanted me to keep quiet about it. Only old Harker said there was no need. Ransford made no comment on this, and Dick, having exhausted his stock of news, presently went off to bed. Master Bryce, observed Ransford, after a period of silence, is playing a game. What it is, I don’t know, but I’m certain of it. Well, we shall see. You’ve been much upset by all this,” he went on after another pause. “And the knowledge that you have has distressed me beyond measure, but just have a little a very little more patience, and things will be cleared. I can’t tell all that’s in my mind, even to you, Mary, who had been sewing while Ransford, as was customary with him in an evening, read the Times to her, looked down at her work. I shouldn’t care. If only these rumors in the town about you could be crushed, she said. “It’s so cruel, so vile that such things,” Ransford snapped his fingers. “I don’t care that about the rumors,” he answered contemptuously. They’ll be crushed out just as suddenly as they arose. And then perhaps I’ll let certain folk in right know what I think of them. And as regards the suspicion against me, I know already that the only people in the town for whose opinion I care fully accept what I said before the coroner. As to the others, let them talk if the thing comes to a head before its due time. You make me think that you know more much more than you’ve ever told me, interrupted Mary. So I do, he replied. and you’ll see in the end why I’ve kept silence. Of course, if people who don’t know as much will interfere, he was interrupted there by the ringing of the front doorbell, at the sound of which he and Mary looked at each other. “Who can that be?” said Mary. “It’s past 10:00.” Ransford offered no suggestion. He sat silently waiting until the parliament entered. “Inspector Mitchton would be much obliged if you could give him a few minutes, sir,” she said. Ransford got up from his chair. Take Inspector Mitch into the study, he said. Is he alone? No, sir. There’s a gentleman with him, replied the girl. All right, I’ll be with them presently, answered Ransford. Take them both in there and light the gas. Police, he went on when the parliament had gone. They get hold of the first idea that strikes them, and never even look round for another. You’re not frightened. Frightened? No. Uneasy? Yes, replied Mary. What can they want this time of night? Probably to tell me something about this romantic tale of dicks, answered Ransford, as he left the room. It’ll be nothing more serious, I assure you. But he was not so sure of that. He was very well aware that the Rochester police authorities had a definite suspicion of his guilt in the Braden and Kishaw matters, and he knew from experience that police suspicion is a difficult matter to dissipate. And before he opened the door of the little room, which he used as a study, he warned himself to be careful and silent. The two visitors stood near the hearth, Ransford took a good look at them as he closed the door behind him. Mitchington. He knew well enough. He was more interested in the other man, a stranger, a quietl lookinging, very ordinary individual who might have been half a dozen things. But Ransford instantly set him down as a detective. He turned from this man to the inspector. “Well,” he said a little bruskly, “what is it?” “Sorry to intrude so late, Dr. Ransford, answered Mitchon. But I should be much obliged if you would give us a bit of information badly wanted, doctor, in view of recent events, he added with a smile which was meant to be reassuring. I’m sure you can, if you will. Sit down, said Ransford, pointing to chairs. He took one himself, and again glanced at the stranger. To whom am I speaking in addition to yourself, Inspector? He asked. I’m not going to talk to strangers. Oh well, said Mitchon a little awkwardly. Of course, doctor, we’ve had to get a bit of professional help in these unpleasant matters. This gentleman’s detective, Sergeant Jettison, from the yard. “What information do you want?” asked Ransford. Mitch glanced at the door and lowered his voice. “I may as well tell you, doctor,” he said confidentially. “There’s been a most extraordinary discovery made tonight which has a bearing on the Braden case. I dare say you’ve heard of the great jewel robbery which took place at the Duke of Saxonstead some years ago, which has been a mystery to this very day. I have heard of it, answered Ransford. Very well tonight. Those jewels of the whole lot have been discovered in Paradise Yonder, where they’d been buried at the time of the robbery by the thief, continued. They’ve just been examined, and they’re now in the Duke’s own hands again after all these years. And I may as well tell you, we now know that the object of Braden’s visit to Reichister was to tell the Duke where those jewels were hidden. Braden and another man had learned the secret from the real thief who’s dead in Australia. All that I may tell you, Dr. For, it’ll be public property tomorrow. Well, said Ransford. Mitch hesitated a moment, as if searching for his next words. He glanced at the detective. The detective remained immobile. He glanced at Ransford. Ransford gave him no encouragement. Now look here, doctor, he exclaimed suddenly. Why not tell us something? We know now who Braden really was. That settled. Do you understand? Who was he then? Asked Ransford quietly. He was one John break, sometime manager of a branch of a London bank who 17 years ago got 10 years penal servitude for embezzlement, answered Mitchon, watching Ransford steadily. That’s dead certain. We know it. The man who shared this secret with him about the Saxonstead jewels has told us that much today. John break. What have you come here for? asked Ransford. to ask you between ourselves if you can tell us anything about break’s earlier days antecedence that’ll help us replied it may be jettison here a man of experience thinks it’ll be found to be that break or Braden as we call him was murdered because of his possession of that secret about the jewels our informant tells us that Braden certainly had on him when he came to Rochester a sort of diagram showing the exact location of the spot where the jewels were hidden That diagram was most assuredly not found on Braden when we examined his clothing and effects. It may be that it was rested from him in the gallery of the Clarator that morning, and that his asalent or asalants, for there may have been two men at the job, afterwards pitched him through that open doorway, after half stifling him. And if that theory is correct, and I personally am now quite inclined to it, it’ll help a lot if you’ll tell us what you know of Braden’s breaks antecedance. Come now, doctor. You know very well that Braden or break did come to your surgery that morning and said to your assistant that he’d known a Dr. Ransford in times past. Why not speak? Ransford, instead of answering Mitchon’s evidently genuine appeal, looked at the new Scotland Yard man. “Is that your theory?” he asked. Jettison nodded his head with a movement indicative of conviction. “Yes, sir,” he replied, having regard to all the circumstances of the case, as they’ve been put before me since I came here, and with special regard to the revelations which have resulted in the discovery of these jewels. It is. Of course, today’s events have altered everything if it hadn’t been for our informant. Who is your informant? Inquired Ransford. The two callers looked at each other. The detective nodded at the inspector. Oh, well, said Mitchon. No harm in telling you, doctor. A man named Glastale, once a fellow convict with break. It seems they left England together after their time was up, immigrated together, prospered. even went so far, both of them, as to make good the money they’d appropriated, and eventually came back together in possession of this secret. Brake came specially to Rochester to tell the Duke Glastale was to join him on the very morning Brick met his death. Glastale did come to the town that morning, and as soon as he got here, heard of Break’s strange death. That upset him and he went away only to come back today, go to Saxonstead and tell everything to the Duke with the result we’ve told you of. Which result, remarked Ransford steadily regarding Mitch, has apparently altered all your ideas about me. Mitch laughed a little awkwardly. Oh, well, come now, doctor, he said. Why, yes, frankly, I’m inclined to jettison’s theory. In fact, I’m certain that’s the truth. And your theory? inquired Ransford, turning to the detective. Is put it in a few words. My theory, and I’ll lay anything, it’s the correct one is this, replied Jettison. Break came to Rightchester with his secret. That secret wasn’t confined to him and Glastale. Either he let it out to somebody or it was known to somebody. I understand from Inspector Mitch here that on the evening of his arrival, break was away from the Miter Hotel for 2 hours. During that time he was somewhere with whom? Probably with somebody who got the secret out of him or to whom he communicated it. For think, according to Glasale, who we are quite sure has told the exact truth about everything, break had on him a scrap of paper on which were instructions in Latin. for finding the exact spot where at the missing Saxonstead jewels had been hidden years before by the actual thief who I may tell you sir never had the opportunity of returning to repossess himself of them. Now after Break’s death the police examined his clothes and effects. They never found that scrap of paper and I work things out this way. Break was followed into that gallery, a lonely, quiet place, by the man or men who had got possession of the secret. He was, I’m told, a slightly built, not over strong man. He was seized and robbed of that paper and flung to his death. And all that fits in with the second mystery of Kishaw, who probably knew, if not everything, then something of the exact circumstances of Brick’s death. and let his knowledge get to the ears of Brakes asalent who cleverly got rid of him. That’s my notion, concluded the detective, and I shall be surprised if it isn’t a correct one. And as I’ve said, doctor, chimed in, can’t you give us a bit of information now? You see the line we’re on. Now, as it’s evident you once knew Braden, or break, I have never said so, interrupted Ransford sharply. Well, we infer it from the undoubted fact that he called here, remarked. And if wait, said Ransford, he had been listening with absorbed attention to Jettison’s theory, and he now rose from his chair and began to pace the room, hands in pockets, as if in deep thought. Suddenly he paused and looked at Mitch. “This needs some reflection,” he said. “Are you pressed for time?” Not in the least, answered Mitch readily. Our time’s yours, sir. Take as long as you like. Ransford touched a bell, and summoning the parliament, told her to fetch whiskey, soda, and cigars. He pressed these things on the two men, lighted a cigar himself, and for a long time continued to walk up and down his end of the room, smoking, and evidently in very deep thought. The visitors left him alone, watching him curiously now and then, until, when quite 10 minutes had gone by, he suddenly drew a chair close to them and sat down again. “Now listen to me,” he said. “If I give my confidence to you, as police officials, will you give me your word that you won’t make use of my information until I give you leave or until you have consulted me further? I shall rely on your word, mind.” I say yes to that, doctor, answered. 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 antecedence 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 sometime on the evening of the day on which he came to Rochester. He was with the old man whom we all know as Simpson Harker. Mitch whistled. The detective, who knew nothing of Simpson Harker, glanced at him as if for information, but Mitch 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 2 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 Mitchon. 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. Who watched us? Harker, for one, answered Ransford, and for another, my late assistant, Mr. Peton Bryce. Mitchton’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 chaps 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 installment. Ransford came back with Dick Bury clad in a loud patented and gay colored suit of pajamas. Now Dick said Ransford tell Inspector Mitch 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 Mitchton when Dick had made an 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 Mitch. “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 Mitch 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. Camp, 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 company, 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, Campony further remarked, as a matter for humorous comment, that Bryce was also spending much time looking around our old tombs. Now, you made this discovery near an old tomb. I understand. Close by one. Yes, asented 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 Vanna went to fetch the police. That’s one. That’s true, muttered Mitch. He was several minutes. Bryce it was who discovered Kashaw 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 Mitchton. There’s one thing certain, Inspector, he said. You’ll keep an eye on those two from this out, from just now. I shall, asented Mitchington. I’ll have both of them 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 2 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 is nearly over. Chapter 18. Surprise. Mitch 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 Mitchton turned to his companion. “What do you 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 Mitchon, 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 care tupence 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? I well a lot can happen in 2 days but about your theory questioned Mitch 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 fools 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 Kishaw saw something that would incriminate one or both. A well asked Mitchton. Bryce is a medical man, observed jettison. It would be an easy thing for a medical man to get rid of Kishaw as he undoubtedly was got rid of. Do you see my point? I And I can see that Bryce is a clever hand at throwing dust in anybody’s eyes, muttered Mitch. 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 is 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. 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 to 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 been with Ransford about 2 years clever chap undoubtedly but certainly deep and in a way reserved though he can talk plenty if he 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. 10 11, 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 a close quarters with this gentleman. Easy enough, asented. 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. Mitch was right in his description of Bryce’s habits. Bryce rarely went to bed before 1:00 in the morning. He liked to sit up reading. His favorite mental food was found in the lives of statesmen and diplomatists, most of them of the sort, famous for trickery and chicainery. 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 Mitchton 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 behooved him as a good general to review his forces. The forest stalling 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 endeavoring 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 Break, had carried the secret to Rochester, 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 restate 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 Mitchon and the detective came up the path to his door, Bryce had put his notions into clear phrasiology. 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 Kishaw. 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 Bury 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 Buri would exceed 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 unawwakened 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 Buerie, 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 Playmre 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 Mitchton immediately after breakfast next morning when Mitchton knocked at his door. Bryce was rarely taken back, and on seeing Mitchon and a companion, he forthwith invited them into his parlor, put out his whiskey 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 in to 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, asented Jettison. Complicated. Highly so, agreed Bryce. He yawned and glanced at the inspector. What’s your news, Mitch? He asked almost indifferently. Oh well, answered Mitch. As the Heralds publish 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 Dukes some years ago. Yes. Well, we found all 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 through a man who with Braden Braden Mark youu 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 buried there in paradise. Dug him 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 Mitchton 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 Bury 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. Mitch, 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 Mitchon fell back on himself. “So you fetched old Harker,” he said. “What? What for, doctor? If one may ask, you know. Rice made a careless gesture with his cigarette. Old Harker’s deeply interested in what’s going on, he answered. And as young Bury drew my attention to your proceedings, why, I thought I’d draw Harkers, and Harker was interested. Mitch 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 waist coat and looked half lazily at his questioner. “Do you know who old Harker really is?” he inquired. “No,” answered Mitch. “I know nothing about him except that he 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, Mitch, 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, Mitch. Well, as you’re here, perhaps I’d better startle you a bit more. Chapter 19. 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, Mitch, 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, asented Mitchon, you know more than, 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, Mitch,” 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 right paradise mystery involving the deaths of both Braden and Kashaw than any man living. Because though you don’t know it, Mitch, 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 Bury. 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, Mitch 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, asented 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 antecedants, and all that. Now pretty nearly everybody in Rochester 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 clothes, particularly you know what they are. Miss Bury 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 Bury. I know that she’s asked him. He keeps up an obstinate silence. And so I determined to find things out for myself. I And when did you start on that little game now, doctor? Asked Mitch. 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, Mitch, 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 9, 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 Vanna, who told me of the accident. I went with him to the foot of St. Rith’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 a while 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 Break. 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 10 years penal servitude. And those two wards of Ransfords, Mary and Richard Bury, as they are called, are in reality Mary and Richard break his children. “You’ve established that as a fact?” asked Jettison, who was listening with close attention. “It’s not a smise on your part.” Bryce hesitated before replying to this question. “After all,” he reflected, it was a smise. 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 Buerie at the parish church of Braden Medworth near Barthorp in Leicester. 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. Breen Ransford as young men had been in the habit of going to Braden Medworth to fish. Mary Buri was governess at the vicorage there. It was always supposed marry Ransford. Instead she married Blake who of course took her off to London. Of their married life I know nothing but within a few years break was in trouble for the reason I have told you. He was arrested and Harker was the man who arrested him. Dear me, exclaimed Mitch. 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 defense, but his council threw out strange hints and suggestions, all to the effect that Bre had been cruy and wickedly deceived in. Fact, as it were, trapped into doing what he did, and by a man whom he trusted as a close friend. So much came to Harker’s ears, but no more. And on that particular point, I have no light. Go on from that to Break’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 Breake himself utterly refused to say one single word about them. Harker asked if he could do anything. Break’s answer was that no one was to concern himself. He preserved an obstinate silence on that point. The clergymen, in whose family Mrs. break had been governor saw break after his conviction break would say nothing to him of Mrs. break. Nothing more is known to me. At any rate, what was known at the time is this break communicated to all who came in contact with him. Just then, the idea of a man who has been cruy wronged and deceived, who takes refuge in sullen silence, and who is already planning and cherishing revenge. I I muttered Mitchington. Revenge just so. Break then, continued Bryce, goes off to his term of penal servitude, and so disappears until he reappears here in Rochester. 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 Blake 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 Brick’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 Rochester 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 Buri. The name of the young woman whom John Brake married was Buri. 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 Brakes’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. “Ransfford was the close friend who tricked and deceived Brick. He probably tricked him in some money affair, and deceived him in his domestic affairs. I take it that Ransford ran away with Break’s wife and that Break 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. Break and the two children mere infants and disappeared. Break 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 Rochester, utterly unaware that anyone known to him lived here. Now try to reconstruct what happened. He looks around the clothes 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 Kishaw 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. Kishaw 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, Mitch, which you’ve never heard of, I’m certain. I made it in my way after Kolshaw’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 Kishaw had been a member for some years. It appears that he, Kolishaw, 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 2 days before his death Kishaw paid £50. £50 mark you into the friendly society. Where should Kishaw get £50 all of a sudden? He was a mason’s laborer earning at the very outside 26 or 8 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 rumor that Kishaw, 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 asalent, that he had made it his business to see Kishaw, and had paid him that £50 as hush money, and later had decided to rid himself of Kashaw 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 Kishaw 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. Mitch 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. Kishaw, you may say, was condemned to death when he put that box of pills in his waist coat 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 Kashaw picked out the poison pill first. It might have been delayed till the sixth dose, you see, but he was doomed. Mitch showed a desire to speak, and Bryce paused. “What about what Ransford said before the coroner?” asked Mitchton. 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? Mitch and Jettison exchanged glances. Then Jettison leaned nearer to Bryce. So your theory is that Ransford got rid of both Braden and Kishaw 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 Kishaw, “Don’t forget,” interrupted Mitch. Vanna swore that he saw Braden flung through that doorway. “Flung out, he saw a hand.” “For everything that Vanna 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 Kashaw murder, without doubt deliberate. He lighted another cigarette with the air of a man who had spoken his mind, and Mitchton, realizing that he had said all he had to say, got up from his seat. “Uh, 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. I’ve told you the reason, answered Bryce. Mitch 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 Bonapart 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, Mitch. The two men went away through the midnight streets and kept silence until they were near the door of Jettison’s hotel. Then Mitch 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 damn deep one. And my advice is watch the lot. Chapter 20. 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 Mitch 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 noon tide to Rochester, as Jettison turned into the police station and sought Mitch in his office. I was just coming round to see if you’d overslept yourself, said Mitchon good humoredly. 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 Mitchon. 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 9:00. Dr. Ransford went up to London by the 8:15. Dr. Bryce says his land lady went out on his bicycle at 8 where she didn’t know but she fancied into the country. However, I ascertain that Ransford is expected back this evening, and Bryce gave orders for his usual dinner to be ready at 7:00. And so, Jettison flung away the newspaper and pulled out his pipe. “Oh, I don’t think they’ll run away, either of them,” he remarked indifferently. “They’re both too cockshore of their own ways of looking at things. You looked at him anymore,” asked Mitch. “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 Kashaw 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 collawore 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 Rochester Second Friendly, answered Mitch. There are two such societies in the town. The first’s patronized by small tradesmen and the like, the second by working men. The second does take deposits from its members. The office is in Flaggate Secretary’s name outside Mr. Stebing. 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 oldworld 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 inconspicuous guilt letters Rightchester Second Friendly Society, George Stebing, Secretary. nothing but tokened 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 harbored a small boy and a tall young man. An inner one accommodated Mr. Stebbing, also a young man, sandyhaired 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 them 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. Stebing, I’m down here in connection with that Kishaw 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 Kishaw, 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 elacrity. Just between you and me and the doorpost. All right. Anything I can do, Mr. the 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, easygoing fashion. I want to know a thing or two. Yours is a working man’s society, I think. I, and I understand you have 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 sometime,” said Jettison, putting the pamphlet in his pocket. “Well, now I also understand that Kishaw 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 a scent and reached for a ledger which lay on the father’s side of his desk. Kolshaw, he answered, had been a member of our society ever since it started 14 years ago. And he’d been putting in savings for some 8 or 9 years. Not much, you’ll understand. Say as an average 2 to3 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 £50. Fairly astounded me, sir. £50 all in a lump. It’s about that £50 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 Stepping. 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, pounds. You see the date that I’d be 2 days before his death. Jettison glanced at the ledger and resumed his seat. Now then, Mr. Stepping, 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 Kishaw pay that £50 to you? That’s easy, answered, sir, said the secretary. It was in gold. 50 sovereigns. He had them in a bit of a bag. Jettison reflected on this information for a moment or two, then he rose. Much obliged to you, Mr. Stebing, 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, stubbing promptly. “Old bank in Monday market, Papaman Hargreaves, in the square, Rochester bank in Spuragate. 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. 10 minutes later he was in the private parlor 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 two. 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 easygoing his manner might be, he knew his business as thoroughly as they knew theirs. It was by that time past 1:00, 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 3:00 he walked into Mitchton’s office, and finding the inspector alone, shut the door, and drew a chair to Mitchton’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.” Mitchton pushed his papers aside and showed his keen attention. “You remember what that young fellow told us last night about that man Kishaw paying in £50 to the second friendly 2 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 Kishaw handed in that £50. I got to know gold. Mitch, 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 Kolshaw that £50 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 check can be readily traced. So can banknotes. But gold is not easily traced. Therefore, the man who paid Kishaw £50 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 £50 in gold in their pockets or to have it at hand? Not many, agreed. Just so, and therefore I’ve been doing a bit of secret inquiry amongst the bankers as to who supplied himself with gold that date, continued jettison. I’d to convince him 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 Kolshaw handed that £50 to Stebing, a certain righteous man drew £50 in gold at his bank. Who do you think he was? Who? Who? demanded Mitch. Jettison leaned half across the desk. Bryce, he said in a whisper. Bryce, Mitch 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 Rochester bank. On the day I’m speaking of, he cashed a check to self for £50 and took it all in gold.” The two men looked at each other as if each were asking his companion a question. “Well,” said Mitchton 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, Mitch. If I say if, mind if that £50 which he drew in gold is the identical 50 paid to Kishaw. Bryce didn’t pay it as hush money. Think not, said Mitch, 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 Vanna fetched him to Braden. That’s established on what you’ve put before me. Therefore, whatever Kishaw saw before or at the time that accident happened, it wasn’t Bryce who was mixed up in it. Therefore, why should Bryce pay Kishaw hush money? Mitchon, 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 have an abstract here of what the foreman at the cathedral mason’s yard told me, of what he knew as to where Kishaw was working that morning when the accident happened. I made a note of it when I questioned him after Kishaw’s death.” Here you are. Foreman says that on morning of Braden’s accident, Kolshaw was at work in the north gallery of the clery, clearing away some timber which the carpenters had left there. Kishaw was certainly thus engaged from 9:00 until 11 that morning. Mem have investigated this myself from the exact spot where sea 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. Right’s stare. Well, observed Jettison, that proves what I’m saying. It wasn’t hush money. For whoever it was that Kishaw saw lay hands on Braden, it wasn’t Bryce. Bryce we know was at that time coming across the clothes or crossing that path through the part you call paradise. Vanna’s evidence proves that. So, if the £50 wasn’t paid for hush money, what was it paid for? Do you suggest anything? Asked Mitch. I’ve thought of two or three things, answered the detective. Ones, this was the £50 paid for information. If so, and Bryce has that information, why doesn’t he show his hand more plainly? If he bribed Kashaw with £50 to tell him who Braden’s asalent was, he now knows. So why doesn’t he let it out and have done with it? Part of his game, if that theory is right, murmured Mitchon. It may be right, said Jettison, but it’s one, and there’s another supposing he paid Kashaw that money on behalf of somebody else. I 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. Mitchton 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 asented 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 £50. 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 Mitchton, who tore it open, glanced over its contents, and passed it to his companion, who read it aloud. Meet me with Jettison Rochester station on arrival of 520 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 them in this affair. Now then, who are they? Chapter 21. The Saxonstead arms. Bryce had ridden away on his bicycle from Reich 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 neighborhood the man Glastale. Glastale had been in Rochester 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 Saxonstead. Bryce knew the Duke to be an extremely approachable man, a talkative, even a geralus man given to holding converse with anybody about anything, and he speedily made up his mind to ride over to Saxonstead, invent a plausible excuse for his call, and get some news out of his grace. Even if Glastale had left the neighborhood, there might be fragments of evidence to pick up from the Duke. For Glastale, 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 Glastale would yield all that he desired. The active brain that had stood Bryce in goodstead while he spun his meshes and devised his schemes was more active than ever that early summer morning. It was a 10-mi ride through woods and valleys to Saxonstead, and there were sightes 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 hedge, and no thought for the rustic folk whose cottages he passed here and there in a sparssely 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 forever 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 Buri, 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 Buerie 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 Bury 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 Glastale. For Glastale, 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 weedle 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 Saxonstead, 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 Glastale 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 middleage, with a tinge of gray in his hair and mustache, prosperousl looking and well-dressed, and at that moment of the appearance of what he was probably taken for by the in 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 Glastale sat, assumed his politest and sworevest 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? Glastale 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 have the advantage of me, sir, he said. Dr. Bryce, I see. But Bryce smiled and dropped into a garden chair at Glastale’s side. You needn’t be afraid of talking to me, he answered. I’m well known in Rochester. 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, Mitchton told me, and of your friendship with Braden, and I want to ask you a question or two about Braden. Glastale, 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 have 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 Glastale. He looked narrowly at his visitor. I suppose you know his story and mine, he asked. By gone affairs, eh? Yes, yes, answered Bryce reassuringly. No need to go into that. That’s all done with. I Well, we both put things right, said Glastale. Made restitution, both of us, you understand. So that is done with, and you know then, of course, who Braden really was. John Break, 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. Glastale turned and stared at his companion. “His daughter?” he exclaimed. “Break’s daughter. God bless my soul. I never knew he had a daughter.” It was Bryce’s turn to stare now. He looked at Glastale incredulously. “Do you mean to tell me that you knew break all those years, and that he never mentioned his children?” he exclaimed. “Never a word of him,” replied Glastale. “Never knew he had any. Did he never speak of his past?” asked Bryce. “Not in that respect,” answered Glastale. “I had 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 break 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 Break’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 Glastale had watched him curiously. “But did he ever speak to you of an old friend of his named Ransford, a doctor?” “Never,” said Glastale. Never mention such a man, Bryce reflected again and suddenly determined to be explicit. John Breke, the bank manager, he said, was married at a place called Braden Medworth in Leicester to a girl named Mary Bury. He had two children, who would be respectively about 4 and 1 years of age when his, we’ll call it misfortune happened. That’s a fact. First I ever heard of it then, said Glastale. 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 breaks wedding. Never heard him speak of Ransford, nor of any wedding, affirmed Glastale. All news to me, doctor. This Ransford is now in practice in Rochester, said Bryce. And he has two young people living with him as his wards, a girl of 20, a boy of 17, who are without doubt John Breaks children. It is the daughter that I want to marry. Glastale shook his head as if in sheer perplexity. Well, all I can say is you surprise me, he remarked. I had no idea of any such thing. Do you think break came to Rochester 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 Glastale. No, I know his reason for coming to Rochester. It was holy and solely, as far as I know, to tell the Duke here about that jewel business, the secret of which had been entrusted to Break and me by a man on his deathbed in Australia. Brick came to Rochester by himself. I was to join him next morning. We were then to go to see the Duke together. When I got to Rochester, I heard of Brick’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 Bray came this way. I tell you, I knew nothing at all of his family affairs. He was a very close man, Breake, 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 cruy deceived and wronged him, but one of them in particular, answered Glastale. 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 Falconer Ray,” answered Glastale promptly. “A man he’d known in London. This Ray, together with his partner, a man called Flood, tricked Break into lending him several thousands pounds banks 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 him have some thousands. They disappeared and the bank inspector happened to call at breaks bank and ask for his balances and there he was and that’s why he’d fulcen a ray on his mind as his one big idea. T man was a lesser consideration. Rey was the chief offender. I wish you’d tell me all you know about break, 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 Glasale 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 traced this ray 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 Rey. 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 Rey, and Breake 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 Glastale. I can’t remember it all now, big man. Clean shaven. Nothing very particular except one thing. Rey, according to break, 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 Glasale. But I’ve wondered since this Rightchester affair if Break 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 Break. I’d have gone to it if I 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 Glastale. That man who called himself Delingham, who came with break to the Miter Hotel at Rochester. Who is he? Where did break meet him? Where did he go? Seems to me the police have been strangely negligent. According to the accounts I’ve read, everybody just accepted this. Delingham’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 may be something in your suggestion. They certainly did take his word without inquiry. It’s true he mightn’t be what he said he was. I and from what I read, they never followed his movements that morning, observed Glastale. 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 hand billills which Mitchon had given him and handed them over. “Well, I must go,” he said. I shall no doubt see you again in Rochester over this affair. For the present all this is between ourselves, of course. Oh, of course, doctor, answered Glasale. Quite so. Bryce went off and got his bicycle and rode away in the direction of Rochester. Had he remained in that garden, he would have seen Glastale, after reading both the hand bills, go into the house and have heard him asked 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 Rochester 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 other people’s notions. The great towers of 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 Saxonstead 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 Richchester lying in its hollow beneath him, the summer sun shining on its red roofs and gray 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 Gulf links. He was almost certain to find Mary Bury there at that hour, and he wanted to see her at once. The time for his great stroke had come, but Mary Buerie was not that had not been there that morning, said the caddy master. There were only a few players out. In one of them, coming towards the clubhouse, Bryce recognized Sackville Bonham, and at sight of Sackville, Bryce had an inspiration. Mary Burie would not come up to the links now before afternoon. He Bryce would lunch there and then go towards Reichchester to meet her by the path across the fields on which he had way laid her after his visit to Leershure. And meanwhile he would invagle 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 clubhouse, 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 Saxon’s dead 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 things 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 nicity answered Sackville. That old chap Braden, you know, is in possession of that secret. He comes to Rochester about it. But somebody else knows that somebody gets rid of Braden. Why? So that the secret will 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 £5,000 for news of those jewels? No, I didn’t, answered Bryce. Fact, sir, pure fact, continued Sackville. Now, £5,000 divided in two is 2500 each, but 5,000 undivided is what? 5,000 apparently, said Bryce. Just so and remarked Sackville knowingly a man will do a lot for 5,000 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 share in secret that it and why not asked Sackville look at what we know from the account in the paper this morning this other chap glass 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 £5,000 reward, plain as a pike staff. Only the police are such fools. And what about Kishaw? asked Bryce, willing to absorb all his companions ideas. Part of the game, declared Sackville. Same man that got rid of Braden got rid of that chap. Probably Kishaw knew a bit and had to be silenced. But whether that Glastale did it all off his own bat, or whether he’s somebody in with him, that’s where the guilt will 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 will 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. Foliot 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 them for him. We couldn’t think of anything else. Very good of you all, I’m sure, asented 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 once got to do under the circumstances. Of course, Miss Bury isn’t Doctor 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 clubhouse until past 3:00, and then, being well acquainted with Mary Burie’s movements from long observation of them, set out to walk down towards Rochester, 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 Bury 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 Rochester. He had not even now the accurate knowledge as to the actual murderer of either Braden or Kishaw that he would have liked, but he knew something that would enable him to ask Mary Bury 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 clothes, and as he approached Ransford’s house, saw Mrs. Folly leaving it. Mary Buri, 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. Foliot had dropped in to bring her a bunch of roses and once admitted had shown unmistakable signs of a desire to gossip. “Ransfforded 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 patience.” “Did he hear about this discovery of the Saxonstead jewels before he went?” asked Foliot. 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. Folate 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. Folott? asked Mary at once on her guard. I don’t understand you. You know all that suspicion and so on, said Folate. Bad position for a professional man. You know what 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? Foliard 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, Foliot 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. Foliot, a rare caller, and before she had been closeted with Mary 5 minutes, brought up the subject again. I want to speak to you on a very serious matter, my dear Miss Buri, 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. Foliot? asked Mary, stealing herself against what she felt sure was coming. Is it very serious? And pardon me, is it about what Mr. Folate 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. Foliot 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. Foliot 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 Bury, that it is highly necessary that someone 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 needle work and began to be much occupied with it. “Is Dr. Ransford’s character affected?” she asked. “I wasn’t aware of it, Mrs. Foliot.” Oh my dear, you can’t be quite so very so very, shall we say, ingenuous as all that, exclaimed Mrs. Foliot. These rumors, 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 tens for common talk, Mrs. Foliot, answered Mary, and I’m quite sure I don’t. None of us, especially people in our position, can afford to ignore rumors and common talk, said Mrs. Foliot in her loftiest manner. If we are unfortunately talked about, then it is our solemn bound and 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. Folate, 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. Foliot. 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. foliate that I don’t believe any decent person in Rochester 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 its 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. his folly 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 anyone but her visitor. Am I to understand that, Mrs. Folott? Certainly not, my dear, answered Mrs. Foliot 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. Foliot’s large countenance. You, she exclaimed, to establish Dr. Ransford’s innocence. Why, Mrs. Foliot, what have you done? Mrs. Foliot toyed a little with the jeweled head of her sunshade. Her expression became almost koi. Oh well, she answered after a brief spell of indecision, perhaps it is as well that you should know, Miss Bury, 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 objurate and wouldn’t speak. And as money is nothing, at least as things go to me or to Mr. Foliot, I insisted that he should offer a £1,000 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 £1,000 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. Foliot in the face. Mrs. Foliot, she said at last, “Are you under the impression that I’m thinking of marrying your son?” “I think I have every good reason for believing it,” replied Mrs. Foliot. “You’ve none,” retorted Mary, gathering up her work and moving towards the door. “I have no more intention of marrying Mr. Sackville Bonham than of aloping with a bishop. The ideas too absurd to even be thought of. Five minutes later Mrs. Foliot, heightened in color, had gone, and presently Mary, glancing after her across the close, saw Bryce approaching the gate of the garden. Chapter 23. The unexpected. Mary’s first instinct on seeing the approach of Pembbertton Bryce, the one man she least desired to see, was to retreat to the back of the house and send the parliament 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 bruskness. “He’s away until evening. I don’t want him, replied Bryce just as bruskly. 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 beach 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, endeavoring 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 10 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 onto Ransford ever since that Kishaw affair. Underground work, you know. Mitchon 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 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 Mitchon 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, 17 to 20 years ago,” he answered. About that time there were passages, I say, and they were of a nature which suggests that the reappearance 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 Mitch 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 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? None till I’ve heard what Dr. Ransford had to say, replied Mary. Bryce disliked that ready retort. He was beginning to feel that he was being met by some force stronger than his own. That’s all very well, he remarked. I don’t say that I wouldn’t do the same, but I’m only explaining the police position and showing you the danger likely to arise from it. The police theory is this. As far as I can make it out, Ransford years ago did Braden a wrong, and Braden certainly swore revenge when he could find him. Circumstances prevented Braden from seeking him closely for some time. At last, they met here by accident. Here the police aren’t decided. One theory is that there was an altercation, blows, a struggle in the course of which Braden met his death. The other is that Ransford deliberately took Braden up into the gallery and flung him through that open doorway. That observed Mary with something very like a sneer. Seems so likely that I should think it would never occur to anybody but the sort of people you’re telling me of. No man of any real sense would believe it for a minute. Some people of plain common sense do believe it for all that, retorted Bryce, for it’s quite possible. But as I say, I’m only repeating. And of course, the rest of it follows on that. The police theory is that Kolshaw witnessed Braden’s death at Ransford’s hands. that Ransford got to know that Kleshaw knew of that and that he therefore quietly removed Kashaw. And it is on all that that they’re going and will go. Don’t ask me if I think they’re right or wrong. I’m only telling you what I know so as to show you what danger Ransford is in. Mary made no immediate answer. And Bryce sat watching her. Somehow he was at a loss to explain it to himself things were not going as he had expected. He had confidently believed that the girl would be frightened, scared, upset, ready to do anything that he asked or suggested. But she was plainly not frightened, and the fingers which busied themselves with the fancy work had become steady again, and her voice had been steady all along. “Pray,” she asked suddenly, and with a little satirical inflection of voice which Bryce was quick to notice. “Pray, how is it that you not a policeman, not a detective, come to know so much of all this? Since when were you taken into the confidence of Mitchton and the mysterious person from London? You know as well as I do that I have been dragged into the case against my wishes, answered Bryce almost sullenly. I was fetched Braden. I saw him die. It was I who found Kashaw dead. Of course I’ve been mixed up whether I would or not, and I’ve had to see a good deal of the police, and naturally I’ve leared things. Mary suddenly turned on him with a flash of the eye, which might have warned Bryce that he had signally failed in the main feature of his adventure. And what have you learned that makes you come here and tell me all this? She exclaimed. Do you think I’m a simpleton, Dr. Bryce? You set out by saying that Dr. Ransford is in danger from the police and that you know more much more than the police. What does that mean? Shall I tell you? It means that you you that the police are wrong and that if you like you can prove to them that they are wrong. Now then, isn’t that so? I am in possession of certain facts, began Bryce. I Mary stopped him with a look. My turn, she said. You’re in possession of certain facts now. Isn’t it the truth that the facts you are in possession of are proof enough to you that Dr. Ransford is as innocent as I am? It’s no use you’re trying to deceive me. Isn’t that so? I could certainly turn the police off his track, admitted Bryce, who was growing highly uncomfortable. I could divert. Mary gave him another look, and dropping her needle work, continued to watch him steadily. Do you call yourself a gentleman? She asked quietly. Or we’ll leave the term out. Do you call yourself even decently honest? For if you do, how can you have the sheer impudence more insolence to come here and tell me all this when you know that the police are wrong and that you could, to use your own term, which is your way of putting it, turn them off the wrong track. Whatever sort of man are you? Do you want to know my opinion of you in plain words? You seem very anxious to give it anyway, retorted Bryce. I will give it, and it will perhaps put an end to this, answered Mary. If you are in possession of anything in the way of evidence which would prove Dr. Ransford’s innocence and you are willfully suppressing it, you are bad, wicked, base, cruel, unfit for any decent being society. And she added as she picked up her work and rose. You’re not going to have any more of mine. A moment, said Bryce. He was conscious that he had somehow played all his cards badly, and he wanted another opening. You’re misunderstanding me altogether. I never said never inferred that I wouldn’t save Ransford. Then if there’s need, which I don’t admit, you acknowledge that you could save him, she exclaimed sharply, just as I thought. Then if you’re an honest man, a man with any pretentions to honor, why don’t you at once? Any man who had such feelings as those I’ve just mentioned wouldn’t hesitate one second. But you you you come and talk about it as if it were a game. Dr. Bryce, you make me feel sick. Mentally, morally sick. Bryce had risen to his feet when Mary rose, and he now stood staring at her. Ever since his boyhood, he had laughed and sneered at the mere idea of the finer feelings. He believed that every man has his price, and that honesty and honor are things useful as terms, but of no real existence. And now he was wondering, really wondering if this girl meant the things she said, if she really felt a mental loathing of such minds and purposes as he knew his own were, or if it were merely acting on her part. Before he could speak, she turned on him again more fiercely than before. “Shall I tell you something else in plain language?” she asked. You evidently possess a very small and limited knowledge, if you have any at all, of women, and you apparently don’t rate their mental qualities at any high standard. Let me tell you that I am not quite such a fool as you seem to think me. You came here this afternoon to bargain with me. You happen to know how much I respect my guardian and what I owe him for the care he has taken of me and my brother. You thought to trade on that. You thought you could make a bargain with me. You were to save Dr. Ransford and for reward you were to have me. You dare deny it. Dr. Bryce, I can see through you. I never said it at any rate, answered Bryce. Once more, I say I’m not a fool, exclaimed Mary. I saw through you all along. And you failed. I’m not in the least frightened by what you’ve said. If the police arrest Dr. Ransford, Dr. Ransford knows how to defend himself. And you’re not afraid for him. You know you aren’t. It wouldn’t matter Tupin to you if he were hanged tomorrow for you hate him. But look to yourself. Men who cheat and scheme and plot and plan as you do come to bad ends. Mine yours. Mine the wheel doesn’t come full circle. And now if you please go away and don’t dare to come near me again. Bryce made no answer. He had listened with an attempt at a smile to all this fiery indignation. But as Mary spoke the last words, he was suddenly aware of something that drew his attention from her and them. Through an opening in Ransford’s garden hedge, he could see the garden door of the Foliot’s house across the close. And at that moment, out of it emerged Folate himself in conversation with Glastale. Without a word, Bryce snatched up his hat from the table of the summerhouse and went swiftly away. A new scheme, a new idea in his mind. Chapter 24. Finesse. Glassale. Journeying into Rochester half an hour after Bryce had left him at the Saxonstead arms, occupied himself during his ride across country. in considering the merits of the two hand bills which Bryce had given him. One announced an offer of £500 reward for information in the Braden Kishaw matter, the other of £1,000. It struck him as a curious thing that two offers should be made. It suggested at once that more than one person was deeply interested in this affair, but who were they? No answer to that question appeared on the handbills which were in each case signed by Rochester solicitors to one of these glass dale and arriving in the old city promptly proceeded selecting the offerer of the larger reward. He presently found himself in the presence of an astute-l lookinging man who having had his visitors name sent into him regarded Glale with very obvious curiosity. “Mr. Glastale, he said inquiringly as the caller took an offered chair. Are you by any chance the Mr. Glale whose name is mentioned in connection with last night’s remarkable affair? He pointed to a copy of the weekly newspaper lying on his desk and to a formal account of the discovery of the Saxonstead jewels which had been furnished to the press at the Duke’s request by Mitch. Glastale glanced at it unconcernedly. the same,” he answered. “But I didn’t call here on that matter, though what I did call about is certainly relative to it. You’ve offered a reward for any information that would lead to the solution of that mystery about Braden.” And the other man, Kishaw, of £1,000, “Yes,” replied the solicitor, looking at his visitor, with still more curiosity, mingled with expectancy. “Can you give any?” Glastale pulled out the two hand billills which he had obtained from Bryce. There are two rewards offered, he remarked. Are they entirely independent of each other? We know nothing of the other, answered the solicitor. Except, of course, that it exists. They’re quite independent. Who’s offering the £500 one? asked Glastale. The solicitor paused, looking his man over. He saw at once that Glastale had or believed he had something to tell and was disposed to be unusually cautious about telling it. “Well,” he replied after a pause, “I believe, in fact, it’s an open secret that the offer of £500 is made by Dr. Ransford.” “And yours?” inquired Glastale. Who’s at the back of yours a,000? The solicitor smiled. You haven’t answered my question, Mr. Glastale, he observed. Can you give any information? Glastale threw his questioner a significant glance. Whatever information I might give, he said, I’d only give to a principle. The principle. From what I’ve seen and known of all this, there’s more in it than is on the surface. I can tell something. I knew John Braden, who of course was John Break, very well for some years. Naturally, I was in his confidence. About more than the Saxonstead jewels, you mean? Asked the solicitor. About more than that, asented Glastale. Private matters. I have no doubt I can throw some light sum on this right paradise affair. But, as I said just now, I’ll only deal with the principal. I wouldn’t tell you, for instance, as your principal solicitor. The solicitor smiled again. Your ideas, Mr. Glendale, appear to fit in with our principles. He remarked, “His instructions, strict instructions to us, are that if anybody turns up who can give any information, it’s not to be given to us, but to himself.” “Wise man,” observed Glastale. “That’s just what I feel about it. It’s a mistake to share secrets with more than one person.” “There is a secret, then?” asked the solicitor half slly. “Might be,” replied Glastale. “Who’s your client?” The solicitor pulled a scrap of paper towards him and wrote a few words on it. He pushed it towards his caller and Glass Stale picked it up and read what had been written. Mr. Steven Folott, the clothes. You’d better go and see him, said the solicitor suggestively. You’ll find him reserved enough. Glale read and reread the name as if he were endeavoring to recollect it or connect it with something. What particular reason has this man for wishing to find this out? He inquired. Can’t say, my good sir, replied the solicitor with a smile. Perhaps hell tell you. He hasn’t told me. Glastale rose to take his leave. But with his hand on the door he turned. Is this gentleman a resident in the place? He asked. A well-known townsman, replied the solicitor. You’ll easily find his house in the clothes. Everybody knows it. Glastale went away then and walked slowly towards the cathedral precincts. On his way he passed two places at which he was half inclined to call. One was the police station, the other the office of the solicitors who were acting on behalf of the offerer of £500. He half glanced at the solicitor’s door, but on reflection went forward. A man who was walking across the close pointed out the Foliat residence glassale entered by the garden door and in another minute came face to face with Folate himself busied as usual amongst his rose trees. Glastale saw Foliot and took stock of him before Foliot knew that a stranger was within his gates. Foliot in an old jacket which he kept for his horicultural labors was taking slips from a standard. He looked as harmless and peaceful as his occupation. A quiet, inoffensive, somewhat benevolent elderly man engaged in work which suggested leisure and peace. But Glastale, after a first quick searching glance, took another and longer one, and went nearer with a discreet laugh. Foliot turned quietly, and seeing the stranger showed no surprise. He had a habit of looking over the top rims of his spectacles at people, and he looked in this way at Glastale, glancing him up and down calmly. Glastale lifted his slouch hat and advanced. “Mr. Foliot, I believe, sir,” he said. “Mr. Steven Foliot, I just so,” responded Foliot, “but I don’t know you. Who may you be now?” My name, sir, is Glassdale, answered the other. I’ve just come from your solicitors. I called to see him this afternoon, and he told me that the business I called about could only be dealt with or discussed with you. So, I came here. Fot, who had been cutting slips off a rose tree, closed his knife and put it away in his old jacket. He turned and quietly inspected his visitor once more. “I,” he said quietly. So you’re after that 1,000 reward, eh? I should have no objection to it, Mr. Foliott,” replied Glastale. “I dare say not,” remarked Foliot dryly. “I dare say not. And which are you now? One of those who think they can tell something, or one that really can tell.” “Eh, you’ll know that better when we’ve had a bit of talk, Mr. Foliot,” answered Glastale, accompanying his reply with a direct glance. Oh well now then I have no objection to a bit of talk none whatever said Fiot here we’ll sit down on that bench amongst the roses quite private here nobody about and now he continued as Glaleale accompanied him to a rustic bench set beneath a pergola of rambler roses who are you like I read a queer account in this morning’s local paper of what happened in the cathedral grounds yonder last night and there was a person of your name mentioned are you that Glastale “The same, Mr. Folott,” answered the visitor promptly. “Then you knew Braden, the man who lost his life here,” asked Foliot. “Very well indeed,” replied Glastale. “For how long,” demanded Foliot. “Some years as a mere acquaintance seen now and then,” said Glastale. “A few years recently, as what you might call a close friend.” “Tell you any of his secrets?” asked Foliot. “Yes, he did,” answered Glastale. Anything that seems to relate to his death and the mystery about it, inquired Foliot. I think so, said Glastale. Upon consideration, I think so. Ah, and what might it be now? Continued Foliot. He gave Glasale a look which seemed to denote and imply several things. It might be to your advantage to explain a bit, you know, he added. One has to be a little vague, eh? There was a certain man that Braden was very anxious to find, said Glastale. He’d been looking for him for a good many years. A man, asked Foliot. One? Well, as a matter of fact, there were two, admitted Glastale. But there was one in particular. The other, the second, so Braden said, didn’t matter. He was or had been only a sort of cat’s paw of the man he especially wanted. I see, said Folate. He pulled out a cigar case and offered a cigar to his visitor, afterwards, lighting one himself. “And what did Braden want that man for?” he asked. Glastale waited until his cigar was in full order before he answered this question. Then he replied in one word. “Revenge.” Foliot put his thumbs in the armholes of his buff waste coat, and leaning back, seemed to be admiring his roses. Ah, he said at last, revenge now. A sort of vindictive man, was he? Wanted to get his knife into somebody, eh? He wanted to get something of his own back from a man who’d done him, answered Glastale with a short laugh. That’s about it. For a minute or two, both men smoked in silence. Then, Folly, still regarding his roses, put a leading question. Give you any details? He asked. Enough, said Glastale. Braden had been done over a money transaction by these men, one especially as head and front of the affair, and it had cost him more than anybody would think. Naturally, he wanted, if he ever got the chance, his revenge. Who wouldn’t? And he tracked him down, eh? Asked Foliot. There are questions I can answer, and there are questions I can’t answer, responded Glastale. That’s one of the questions I have no reply to, for I don’t know, but I can say this. He hadn’t tracked him down the day before he came to Rochester. You’re sure of that? asked Foliot. He didn’t come here on that account. No, I’m sure he didn’t, answered Glastale readily. If he had, I should have known. I was with him till noon the day he came here in London. And when he took his ticket at Victoria for Rochester, he’d no more idea than the man in the moon as to where those men had got to. He mentioned it as we were having a bit of lunch together before he got into the train. No, he didn’t come to Rochester for any such purpose as that. But he paused and gave Foy at a meaning glance out of the corner of his eyes. I what? Asked Fot. I think he met at least one of them here, said Glastale quietly. And perhaps both, leading to misfortune for him, suggested Foliott. If you like to put it that way, yes, asented Glastale. Foliot smoked a while in more reflective silence. I Well, he said at last, “I suppose you haven’t put these ideas of yours before anybody now.” “Present ideas?” asked Lostale sharply. “Not to a soul. I’ve not had him very long. You’re the sort of man that another man can do a deal with, I suppose, suggested Foliot. That is, if it’s made worth your while, of course. I shouldn’t wonder, replied Glasale. And if it is made worth my while, Folate mused a little. Then he tapped Glasale’s elbow. You see, he said confidentially, “It might be, you know, that I had a little purpose of my own in offering that reward. It might be that it was a very particular friend of mine that had the misfortune to have incurred this man Braden’s hatred, and I might want to save him, do you see, from well, from the consequence of what’s happened, and to hear about it first if anybody came forward, eh? As I’ve done, said Glastale. As you’ve done, asented Folate, now perhaps it would be in the interest of this particular friend of mine if he made it worth your while to say no more to anybody. E very much worth his while, Mr. Fot, declared Glastale. I Well, continued Foliot, this very particular friend would just want to know, you know, how much you really truly know. Now, for instance, about these two men and one in particular that Braden was after. Did Did he name them? Glastale leaned a little nearer to his companion on the rosecreened bench. He named them to me,” he said in a whisper. “One was a man called Falcon Ray, and the other man was a man named Flood. Is that enough?” “I think you’d better come and see me this evening,” answered Foliot. “Come just about dusk to that door. I’ll meet you there.” “Fine roses, these of mine, aren’t they?” he continued as they rose. “I occupy myself entirely with them.” He walked with Glassdale to the garden door and stood there watching his visitor go away up the side of the high wall until he turned into the path across paradise. And then, as Fot was retreating to his roses, he saw Bryce coming over the close, and Bryce beckoned to him. Chapter 25. The Old Wellhouse. When Bryce came hurrying up to him, Fot was standing at his garden door with his hands thrust under his coat tails. the very picture of a benevolent leisured gentleman who has nothing to do and is disposed to give his time to anybody. He glanced at Bryce as he had glanced at Glastale over the tops of his spectacles, and the glance had no more than mild inquiry in it. But if Bryce had been less excited, he would have seen that Foliot, as he beckoned him inside the garden, swept a sharp look over the close, and ascertained that there was no one about, that Bryce’s entrance was unobserved, save for a child or two playing under the tall elms near one of the gates, and for a clerical figure that stalked a path in the far distance, the clothes was empty of life, and there was no one about either in that part of Folott’s big garden. “I want a bit of talk with you,” said Bryce, as Foliott closed the door and turned down a side path to a still more retired region. “Private talk. Let’s go where it’s quiet.” Without replying in words to this suggestion, Foliot led the way through his rose trees to a far corner of his grounds, where an old building of gray stone, covered with ivy, stood amongst high trees. He turned the key of a doorway and motioned Bryce to enter. “Quiet enough in here, doctor,” he observed. “You’ve never seen this place bit of a fancy of mine.” Bryce, absorbed as he was in the thoughts of the moment, glanced cursorily at the place into which Foliot had led him. It was a square building of old stone, its walls unlined, unplastered, its floor paved with muchworn flags of limestone, evidently set down in a long dead age, and now polished to marblelike smoothness. In its midst, set flush with the floor, was what was evidently a trap door, furnished with a heavy iron ring. To this, Folly pointed with a glance of significant interest. deepest well in all Rochester under that,” he remarked. “You’d never think it. It’s 100 ft deep and more dry now.” Water gave out some years ago. Some people would have pulled this old wellhouse down, but not me. I did better. I turned it to good account. He raised a hand and pointed upward to an obviously modern ceiling of strong oak timbers. “Had that put in,” he continued, and turned the top of the building into a little snuggery. come up. He led the way to a flight of steps in one corner of the lower room, pushed open a door at their head, and showed his companion into a small apartment arranged and furnished in something closely approaching to luxury. The walls were hung with thick fabrics. The carpeting was equally thick. There were pictures, books, and curiosities. The two or three chairs were deep and big enough to lie down in. The two windows commanded pleasant views of the cathedral towers on one side and of the clothes on the other. Nice little place to be alone in deceot. Cool in summer, warm in winter modern fire great you notice. Come here when I want to do a bit of quiet thinking what good place for that certainly agreed Bryce. Foliot pointed his visitor to one of the big chairs, and turning to a cabinet, brought out some glasses, a siphon of soda water, and a heavy cut glass decanter. He nodded at a box of cigars which lay open on a table at Bryce’s elbow as he began to mix a couple of drinks. “Help yourself,” he said. “Good stuff, those.” Not until he had given Bryce a drink and had carried his own glass to another easy chair did Flet refer to any reason for Bryce’s visit. But once settled down he looked at him speculatively. “What did you want to see me about?” he asked. “Bryce, who had lighted a cigar, looked across its smoke at the imperturbable face opposite.” “You’ve just had Glastale here,” he observed quietly. “I saw him leave you.” Foliot nodded without any change of expression. I doctor, he said, and what do you know about Glassdale now? Bryce, who would have cheerfully hobnobbed with the man whom he was about to conduct to the scaffold, lifted his glass and drank. A good deal, he answered as he set the glass down. The fact is, I came here to tell you so. I know a good deal about everything. A wide term, remarked Foliot. You’ve got some limitation to it, I should think. What do you mean by everything? I mean about recent matters, replied Bryce. I’ve interested myself in them for reasons of my own. Ever since Braden was found at the foot of those stairs in Paradise, and I was fetched to him, I’ve interested myself, and I’ve discovered a great deal more, much more than known to anybody. Folly threw one leg over the other and began to jog his foot. Oh, he said after a pause. Dear me, and what might you know now, doctor, ought you can tell me a lot, answered Bryce, I came to tell you on seeing that Glastale had been with you. Because I was with Glastale this morning, Flet made no answer. But Bryce saw that his cool, almost indifferent manner was changing. He was beginning under the surface to get anxious. When I left Glassdale at noon, continued Bryce. I’d no idea, and I don’t think he had, that he was coming to see you. But I know what put the notion into his head. I gave him copies of those two reward bills. He no doubt thought he might make a bit, and so he came into town. and to you?” “Well,” asked Foliard, “I shouldn’t wonder,” remarked Bryce reflectively, and almost as if speaking to himself, “I shouldn’t at all wonder if Glastale is the sort of man who can be bought. He no doubt has his price, but all that Glasale knows is nothing to what I know.” Foliot had allowed his cigar to go out. He threw it away, took a fresh one from the box, and slowly struck a match, and lighted it. “What might you know now?” he asked after another pause. I have a bit of a faculty for finding things out, answered Bryce boldly. And I’ve developed it. I wanted to know all about Braden and about who killed him and why. There’s only one way of doing all that sort of thing. You know, you’ve got to go back a long way back to the very beginnings. I went back to the time when Braden was married. Not as Braden, of course, but as who he really was, John Break. That was at a place called Braden Medworth near Barthorp in Leicster. He paused there watching Folott, but Foliot showed no more than close attention, and Bryce went on, “Not much in that for the really important part of the story,” he continued. “But Blake had other associations with Barthorp a bit later. He got to know got into close touch with a Barthorp man who about the time of Break’s marriage left Barorp and settled in London. Break and this man began to have some secret dealings together. There was another man in with them too, a man who was a sort of partner of the Barorp mans. Break had evidently a belief in these men and he trusted them. Unfortunately for himself, he sometimes trusted the bank’s money to them. I know what happened. He used to let them have money for short financial transactions to be refunded within a very brief space. But he went to the fire too often and got his fingers burned in the end. The two men did one of them in particular and cleared out. He had to stand the racket. He stood it to the tune of 10 years penal servitude. And naturally, when he’d finished his time, he wanted to find those two men and began a long search for them. like to know the names of the men, Mr. Folate? You might mention him if you know him, answered Foliot. The name of the particular one was Ry Falina Ray, replied Bryce promptly. Of the other, the man of lesser importance flood. The two men looked quietly at each other for a full moment’s silence, and it was Bryce who first spoke with a ring of confidence in his tone, which showed that he knew he had the whip hand. Shall I tell you something about Falcon Array? He asked. I will. It’s deeply interesting. Mr. Falcon Array, after cheating and deceiving Break, and leaving him to pay the penalty of his overtrustfulness, cleared out of England, and carried his money-making talents to foreign parts. He succeeded in doing well he would, and eventually he came back and married a rich widow, and settled himself down in an out ofthe-world English town to grow roses. You’re fulcan array, you know, Mr. Foliot. Bryce laughed as he made this direct accusation and sitting forward in his chair, pointed first to Foliot’s face and then to his left hand. Falcon array, he said, had an unfortunate gun accident in his youth, which marked him for life. He lost the middle finger of his left hand, and he got a bad scar on his left jaw. There they are, those marks. Fortunate for you, Mr. Foliot that the police don’t know all that I know for if they did those marks would have done for you days ago for a minute or two. Foliot sat joggling his leg a bad sign in him of rising temper if Bryce had but known it while he remained silent he watched Bryce narrowly and when he spoke his voice was calm as ever. And what use do you intend to put your knowledge to if one may ask? He inquired half sneeringly. You said just now that you’d no doubt that man Glasstale could be bought, and I’m inclining to think that you’re one of those men that have their price. What is it? We’ve not come to that, retorted Bryce. You’re a bit mistaken. If I have my price, it’s not in the same commodity that Glassale would want. But before we do any talking about that sort of thing, I want to add to my stock of knowledge. Look here. We’ll be candid. I don’t care a snap of my fingers that break or Braden’s dead or that Kashor’s dead, nor if one had his neck broken and the other was poisoned, but whose hand was that which the mason vor saw that morning when break was flung out of that doorway. Come now, whose “Not mine, my lad,” answered Folly confidently. “That’s a fact.” Bryce hesitated, giving Foliot a searching look, and Folly nodded solemnly. I tell you not mine, he repeated. I’d ought not to do with it. Then who had? Demanded Bryce. Was it the other man flood? And if so, who is flood? Foliad got up from his chair and cigar between his lips and hands under the tails of his old coat, walked silently about the quiet room for a while. He was evidently thinking deeply, and Bryce made no attempt to disturb him. Some minutes went by before Follier took the cigar from his lips and leaning against the chimney piece looked fixedly at his visitor. “Look here, my lad,” he said earnestly. “You’re no doubt, as you say, a good hand at finding things out, and you’ve doubtless done a good bit of feriting, and done it well enough in your own opinion. But there’s one thing you can’t find out, and the police can’t find out either, and that’s the precise truth about Braden’s death. I’d no hand in it. It couldn’t be fastened onto me anyhow. Bryce looked up and interjected one word. Kolishawore. Nor that neither, answered Fot hastily. Maybe I know something about both, but neither you nor the police nor anybody could fasten me to either matter. Granting all you say to be true. Where’s the positive truth? What about circumstantial evidence? asked Bryce. You’d have a job to get it, retorted Foliot. Supposing that all you say is true about about past matters, nothing can prove nothing that I ever met Braden that morning. On the other hand, I can prove easily that I never did meet him. I can account for every minute of my time that day. As to the other affair, not an ounce of direct evidence. Then it was the other man, exclaimed Bryce. Now then, who is he? Foliot replied with a shrewd glance. A man who by giving away another man gave himself away would be a damned fool, he answered. If there is another man as if there must be, interrupted Bryce. Then he’s safe, concluded Foliot. You’ll get nothing from me about him. And nobody can get at you except through him, asked Bryce. That’s about it, ascented Folly laconically. Bryce laughed cynically. A pretty coil, he said with a sneer. Here you talked about my price. I’m quite content to hold my tongue if you’d tell me something about what happened 17 years ago. What? asked Folate. You knew break. You must have known his family affairs, said Bryce. What became of Brick’s wife and children when he went to prison? Foliot shook his head. And it was plain to Bryce that his gesture of dissent was genuine. You’re wrong, he answered. I never at any time knew anything of Blake’s family affairs. So little indeed that I never even knew he was married. Bryce rose to his feet and stood staring. What? He exclaimed. You mean to tell me that even now you don’t know that break had two children and that that Oh, it’s incredible. What’s incredible? asked Folate. What are you talking about? Bryce, in his eagerness and surprise, grasped Foliot’s arm and shook it. Good heavens, man. He said, those two wards of Ransfords are Brakes girl and boy. Didn’t you know that, didn’t you? Never, answered Folate. Never. And who’s Ransford, then? I never heard Brakes speak of any Ransford. What game is all this? What? Before Bryce could reply, Folott suddenly started, thrust his companion aside, and went to one of the windows. A sharp exclamation from him took Bryce to his side. Foliot lifted a shaking hand and pointed into the garden. “There,” he whispered. “Hell and what’s this mean?” Bryce looked in the direction pointed out. Behind the pergola of Rambler Rosses, the figures of men were coming towards the old wellhouse led by one of Foliot’s gardeners. Suddenly they emerged into full view and in front of the rest was Mitch and close behind him the detective and behind him Glassale chapter the other man. It was close on 5:00 when Glastale leaving Folate at his garden door turned the corner into the quietness of the precincts. He walked about there a while, staring at the queer old houses with eyes which saw neither fantastic gables nor twisted chimneys. Glastale was thinking, and the result of his reflections was that he suddenly exchanged his idle sauntering for brisker steps and walked sharply round to the police station where he asked to see Mitch. Mitch and the detective were just about to walk down to the railway station to meet Ransford in accordance with his telegram. At sight of Glastale, they went back into the inspector’s office. Glastale closed the door and favored them with a knowing smile. Something else for you, inspector, he said, mixed up a bit with last night’s affair, too. About these mysteries, Braden and Kashaw, I can tell you one man who’s in them. Who, then? Demanded Mitch. Glastale went a step nearer to the two officials and lowered his voice. “The man who’s known here as Steven Folott,” he answered. “That’s a fact.” “Nonsense,” exclaimed Mitch. Then he laughed incredulously. “Can’t believe it,” he continued. “Mr. Foliott must be some mistake.” “No mistake,” replied Glastale. “Besides, Folott’s only an assumed name. That man is really one fulcen array. The man Braden or break was seeking for many a year the man who cheated break and got him into trouble. I tell you it’s a fact. He’s admitted it or as good as done so to me just now to you and let you come away and spread it exclaimed. That’s incredible more astonishing than the other. Glastale laughed. Ah, but I let him think I could be squared. Do you see? He said, “Hush money. You know, he’s under the impression that I’m to go back to him this evening to settle matters. I knew so much identified him, as a matter of fact, that he’d no option. I tell you he’s been in at both these affairs certain, but there’s another man.” “Who’s he?” demanded. “Can’t say, for I don’t know, though I have an idea he’ll be a fellow that break was also wanting to find,” replied Glastale. But anyhow, I know what I’m talking about when I tell you a folly. You’d better do something before he suspects me. Mitch glanced at the clock. Come with us down to the station, he said. Dr. Ransford’s coming in on this express from town. He’s got news for us. And we’d better hear that first. Foliard. Good lord, who’d have believed or even dreamed it. You’ll see, said Glastale as they went out. Maybe Dr. Ransford’s got the same information. Ransford was out of the train as soon as it ran in and hurried to where Mitchington and his companions were standing, and behind him, to Mitchton’s surprise, came old Simpson Harker, who had evidently traveled with him. With a silent gesture, Mitch beckoned the whole party into an empty waiting room and closed its door on them. “Now then, Inspector,” said Ransford, without preface or ceremony, “you’ve got to act quickly. You got my wire? A few words will explain it. I went up to town this morning in answer to a message from the bank where Braden lodged his money when he returned to England. To tell you the truth, the managers there and myself have since Braden’s death been carrying to a conclusion an investigation which I began on Braden’s behalf, though he never knew of it years ago. At the bank, I met Mr. Harker here, who had called to find something out for himself. Now, I’ll sum things up in a nutshell. For years, Braden or Break had been wanting to find two men who cheated him. The name of one is Ray, of the other. Flood. I’ve been trying to trace them, too. At last, we’ve got them. They’re in this town, and without doubt, the deaths of both Braden and Kishaw are at their door. You know both well enough. Rey is Mr. Folott, interrupted Mitchton, pointing to Glastale. So, he’s just told us he’s identified him as Rey, but the other, “Who’s he, doctor?” Ransford glanced at Glastale as if he wished to question him, but instead he answered Mitchton’s question. “The other man,” he said, “the man, Flood is also a well-known man to you. Fladgate.” Mitch started evidently more astonished than by the first news. “What?” he exclaimed. “The Virger, you don’t say. Do you remember?” continued Ransford that Fiot got Flaggate his appointment as VGER not so very long after he himself came here. He did anyway and Flgate is flood. We’ve traced everything through Flood. Rey has been a difficult man to trace because of his residence abroad for a long time and his change of name and so on. And it was only recently that my agents struck on a line through flood. But there’s the fact and the probability is that when Braden came here, he recognized and was recognized by these two and that one or other of them is responsible for his death and for Kishor’s too. Circumstantial evidence, all of it, no doubt, but irresistible. Now, what do you propose to do? Mitch considered matters for a moment. Flgate first, certainly, he said. He lives close by here. We’ll go round to his cottage. If he sees he’s in a tight place, he may let things out. Let’s go there at once. He led the whole party out of the station and down the high street until they came to a narrow lane of little houses which ran towards the close. At its entrance, a policeman was walking his beat. Mitchington stopped to exchange a few words with him. “This man, Fladgate,” he said, rejoining the others. Lives alone Fifth Cottage down here. He’ll be about having his tea. We shall take him by surprise.” Presently the group stood around a door at which Mitchton knocked gently, and it was on their grave and watchful faces that a tall, clean shaven, very solemnlooking man gazed in astonishment as he opened the door, and started back. He went white to the lips, and his hand fell trembling from the latch as Mitch stroed in, and the rest crowded behind. Now then, Flaggate, said Mitchton, going straight to the point, and watching his man narrowly, while the detective approached him closely on the other side. I want you and a word with you at once. Your real name is Flood. What have you to say to that? And it’s no use beating about the bush. What have you to say about this Braden affair and your share with Foliot in it, whose real name is Rey? It’s all come out about the two of you. If you have anything to say, you’d better say it. The vir, whose black gown lay thrown across the back of a chair, looked from one face to another with frightened eyes. It was very evident that the suddenness of the descent had completely unnerved him. “Ransfford’s practiced eyes saw that he was on the verge of a collapse. “Give him time, Mitchton,” he said. “Pull yourself together,” he added, turning to the man. “Don’t be frightened. Answer these questions. For God’s sake, gentlemen, grasped the vir what what is it? What am I to answer? Before God, I’m as innocent as as any of you about Mr. Bra’s death. Upon my soul and honor I am. You know all about it, insisted. Come now, isn’t it true that your flood and that Fot’s ray, the two men whose trick on him got break convicted years ago? Answer that. Flood looked from one side to the other. He was leaning against his tea table set in the middle of his tidy living room. From the hearth, his kettle sent out a pleasant singing that sounded strangely in contrast with the grim situation. “Yes, that’s true,” he said at last. But in that affair, I I wasn’t the principal. I was only only Ray’s agent, as it were. I wasn’t responsible. And when Mr. break came here when I met him that morning. He paused, still looking from one to another of his audience as if in treating their belief. As sure as I’m a living man, gentlemen, he suddenly burst out. I’d no willing hand in Mr. Break’s death. I’ll tell you the exact truth. I’ll take my oath of it whenever you like. I’d have been thankful to tell many a time, but for for Rey, he wouldn’t let me at first, and afterwards it got complicated. It was this way. That morning when Mr. Break was found dead, I had occasion to go up into that gallery under the claristry. I suddenly came on him face to face. He recognized me. And I’m telling you the solemn absolute truth, gentleman. He’d no sooner recognized me than he attacked me, seizing me by the arm. I hadn’t recognized him at first. I did when he laid hold of me. I tried to shake him off, tried to quiet him. He struggled. I don’t know what he wanted to do. He began to cry out. It was a wonder he wasn’t heard in the church below, and he would have been only the organ was being played rather loudly, and in the struggle he slipped. It was just by that open doorway, and before I could do more than grasp at him, he shot through the opening and fell. It was sheer pure accident, gentlemen. Upon my soul, I hadn’t the least intention of harming him, and after that, asked Mitchton at the end of a brief silence. I saw Mr. Folly at Ray, continued Flood, just afterwards, that was, I told him, he bade me keep silence until we saw how things went. Later, he forced me to be silent. What could I do? As things were, Rey could have disclaimed me. I shouldn’t have had a chance. So I held my tongue. Now then, Kishaw, demanded Mitchon. Give us the truth about that. Whatever the other was, that was murder. Flood lifted his hand and wiped away the perspiration that had gathered on his face. Before God, gentlemen, he answered. I know no more, at least little more about that than you do. I’ll tell you all I do know. Ry and I of course met now and then and talked about this. It got to our ears at last that Kishaw knew something. My own impression is that he saw what occurred between me and Mr. Break. He was working somewhere up there. I wanted to speak to Kishaw. Ry wouldn’t let me. He bade me leave it to him. A bit later, he told me he’d squared Kishaw with £50. Mitch and the detective exchanged looks. Rey, that’s foliate paid Kishawore £50, did he? asked the detective. He told me so, replied Flood. To hold his tongue, but I’d scarcely heard that when I heard of Keshaw’s sudden death, and as to how that happened, or who who brought it about upon my soul, gentlemen, I know nothing. Whatever I may have thought, I never mentioned it to Ry. Never. I I dared. You don’t know what a man Ry is. I’ve been under his thumb most of my life. And and what are you going to do with me, gentlemen? Mitchon exchanged a word or two with the detective, and then, putting his head out of the door, beckoned to the policeman to whom he had spoken at the end of the lane, and who now appeared in company with a fellow constable. He brought both into the cottage. “Get your tea,” he said sharply to the vger. “These men will stop with you. You’re not to leave this room.” He gave some instructions to the two policemen in an undertone and motioned Ransford and the others to follow him. It strikes me, he said when they were outside in the narrow lane, that what we’ve just heard is somewhere about the truth. And now we’ll go on to Folott’s. There’s a way to his house around here. Mrs. Foliott was out. Sackville Bonham was still where Bryce had left him at the Gulf links. When the pursuers reached Folots, a parliament directed them to the garden. A gardener volunteered the suggestion that his master might be in the old wellhouse and showed the way. And Flet and Bryce saw them coming and looked at each other. Glass Dale exclaimed Bryce. By heaven, man, he’s told on you. Flet was still staring through the window. He saw Ransford and Harker following the leading figures, and suddenly he turned to Bryce. You’ve no hand in this, he demanded. I exclaimed Bryce. I never knew till just now. Folate pointed to the door. Go down, he said. Let him in. Bid him come up. I’ll I’ll settle with him. Go. Bryce hurried down to the lower apartment. He was filled with excitement, an unusual thing for him. But in the midst of it, as he made for the outer door, it suddenly struck him that all his schemings and plottings were going for nothing. The truth was at hand, and it was not going to benefit him in the slightest degree. He was beaten, but that was no time for philosophic reflection. Already those outside were beating at the door. He flung it open, and the foremost men started in surprise at the sight of him. But Bryce bent forward to Mitchton, anxious to play a part to the last. “He’s upstairs,” he whispered. “Up. He’ll bluff it out if he can, but he’s just admitted to me.” Mitch thrust Bryce aside almost roughly. “We know all about that,” he said. “I shall have a word or two for you later. Come on now.” The men crowded up the stairway into Folly at Snugery. Bryce wondering at the inspector’s words and manner, following closely behind him, and the detective and Glastale who led the way. Foliot was standing in the middle of the room, one hand behind his back, the other in his pocket. And as the leading three entered the place, he brought his concealed hand sharply round and presenting a revolver at Glastale, fired point blank at him. But it was not Glastale who fell. He, weary and watching, started aside as he saw Foliot’s movement, and the bullet passing between his arm and body, found its billet in Bryce, who fell with little more than a groan, shot through the heart, and as he fell, Foliot, scarcely looking at what he had done, drew his other hand from his pocket, slipped something into his mouth, and sat down in the big chair behind him. And within a moment, the other men in the room were looking with horrified faces from one dead face to another. Chapter, the guarded secret. When Bryce had left her, Mary Bury had gone into the house to await Ransford’s return from town. She meant to tell him of all that Bryce had said, and to beg him to take immediate steps to set matters right, not only that he himself might be cleared of suspicion, but that Bryce’s intrigues might be brought to an end. She had some hope that Ransford would bring back satisfactory news. She knew that his hurried visit to London had some connection with these affairs, and she also remembered what he had said on the previous night. And so, controlling her anger at Bryce and her impatience of the whole situation, she waited as patiently as she could until the time drew near, when Ransford might be expected to be seen coming across the close. She knew from which direction he would come, and she remained near the dining room window, looking out for him. But 6:00 came, and she had seen no sign of him. Then, as she was beginning to think that he had missed the afternoon train, she saw him at the opposite side of the close, talking earnestly to Dick, who presently came towards the house, while Ransford turned back into Foliot’s garden. Dick Bury came hurriedly in. His sister saw at once that he had just heard news which had had a sobering effect on his usually effervescent spirits. He looked at her as if he wondered exactly how to give her his message. “I saw you with the doctor just now,” she said, using the term by which she and her brother always spoke of their guardian. “Why hasn’t he come home?” Dick came close to her, touching her arm. “I say,” he said, almost whispering. “Don’t be frightened. The doctor’s all right, but there’s something awful just happened at Foliates. What she demanded? Speak out, Dick. I’m not frightened. What is it? Dick shook his head as if he still scarcely realized the full significance of his news. It’s all a liquor to me yet. He answered. I don’t understand it. I only know what the doctor told me to come and tell you. Look here. It’s pretty bad. Foliot and Bryce are both dead. In spite of herself, Mary started back as from a great shock and clutched at the table by which they were standing. “Dead,” she exclaimed. “Why Bryce was here speaking to me not an hour ago?” “Maybe,” said Dick. “But he’s dead now. The fact is Folly had shot him with a revolver, killed him on the spot, and then Folly had poisoned himself, took the same stuff,” the doctor said, that finished that chap Kalishaw, and died instantly. It was in Foyott’s old wellhouse. The doctor was there and the police. What does it all mean? asked Mary. Don’t know. Except this added Dick. They’ve found out about those other affairs. The Braden and the Kashore affairs. Foliot was concerned in them. And who do you think the other was? You’d never guess. That man Flaggate the Verger. Only that isn’t his proper name at all. He and Folly had finished Braden and Kishaw. Anyway, the police have got Flaggate and Folly had shot Bryce and killed himself just when they were going to take him. The doctor told you all this, asked Mary. Yes, replied Dick. Just that and no more. He called me in as I was passing Folly at store. He’s coming over as soon as he can. Oo, I say. Won’t there be some fine talk in the town? Anyway, things will be cleared up now. What did Bryce want here? Never mind. And I can’t talk of it now, answered Mary. She was already thinking of how Bryce had stood before her, active and alive, only an hour earlier. She was thinking, too, of her warning to him. It’s all too dreadful, too awful to understand. Here’s the doctor coming now, said Dick, turning to the window. He’ll tell more. Mary looked anxiously at Ransford as he came hastening in. He looked like a man who has just gone through a crisis, and yet she was somehow conscious that there was a certain atmosphere of relief about him, as though some great weight had suddenly been lifted. He closed the door and looked straight at her. Dick has told you,” he asked. “All that you told me,” said Dick. Ransford pulled off his gloves and flung them on the table with something of a gesture of weariness. And at that, Mary hastened to speak. “Don’t tell anymore. Don’t say anything until you feel able, she said. You’re tired. No, answered Ransford. I’d rather say what I have to say now, just now. I’ve wanted to tell both of you what all this was, what it meant, everything about it. And until today, until within the last few hours, it was impossible because I didn’t know everything. Now I do. I even know more than I did an hour ago. Let me tell you now and have done with it. Sit down there, both of you, and listen.” He pointed to a sofa near the hearth, and the brother and sister sat down, looking at him wonderingly. Instead of sitting down himself, he leaned against the edge of the table, looking down at them. “I shall have to tell you some sad things,” he said diffidently. The only consolation is that it’s all over now and certain matters are or can be cleared and you’ll have no more secrets. Nor shall I. I’ve had to keep this one jealously guarded for 17 years. And I never thought it could be released as it has been in this miserable and terrible fashion. But that’s done now, and nothing can help it. And now to make everything plain, just prepare yourselves to hear something that at first sounds very trying. The man whom you’ve heard of as John Braden, who came to his death by accident, as I now firmly believe there in paradise, was in reality John Break, your father. Ransford looked at his two listeners anxiously as he told this, but he meant no sign of undue surprise or emotion. Dick looked down at his toes with a little frown, as if he were trying to puzzle something out. Mary continued to watch Ransford with steady eyes. “Your father, John, break,” repeated Ransford, breathing more freely now that he had got the worst news out. “I must go back to the beginning to make things clear to you about him and your mother. He was a close friend of mine when we were young men in London. He a bank manager. I just beginning my work. We used to spend our holidays together in Leicester. There we met your mother whose name was Mary Buerie. He married her. I was his best man. They went to live in London. And from that time I did not see so much of them, only now and then. During those first years of his married life break, made the acquaintance of a man who came from the same part of Leicster that we had met your mother in a man named Falcon Ray. I may as well tell you that Falcon Array and Steven Folott were one and the same person. Ransford paused, observing that Mary wished to ask a question. How long have you known that? She asked. Not until today, replied Ransford promptly. Never had the ghost of a notion of it. If I only had known, but I hadn’t. However, to go back, this man Rey, who appears always to have been a perfect master of plausibility, able to twist people round his little finger, somehow got into close touch with your father about financial matters. Rey was at that time a sort of financial agent in London, engaging in various doings, which I should imagine were in the nature of gambles. He was assisted in these by a man who was either a partner with him or a very confidential clerk or agent. one flood who is identical with the man you have known lately as Fladgate the Vger. Between them these two appear to have cajjol or persuaded your father at times to do very foolish and injudicious things which were to put it briefly and plainly the lendings of various sums of money as short loans for their transactions. For some time they invariably kept their word to him and the advances were always repaid promptly. But eventually when they had borrowed from him a considerable sum some thousands of pounds for a deal which was to be carried through within a couple of days they decamped with the money and completely disappeared leaving your father to bear the consequences. You may easily understand what followed. The money which break had lent them was the bank’s money. The bank unexpectedly came down on him for his balance. The whole thing was found out and he was prosecuted. He had no defense. He was, of course, technically guilty, and he was sent to penal servitude. Ransford had dreaded the telling of this, but Mary made no sign, and Dick only wrapped out a sharp question. He hadn’t meant to rob the bank for himself anyway, had he? He asked. No, no, not at all, replied Ransford hastily. It was a bad error of judgment on his part, Dick, but he he’d relied on these men, more particularly on Rey, who’d been the leading spirit. Well, that was your father’s sad fate. Now, we come to what happened to your mother and yourselves. Just before your father’s arrest, when he knew that all was lost, and that he was helpless, he sent hurriedly for me and told me everything in your mother’s presence. He begged me to get her and you two children right away at once. She was against it, he insisted. I took you all to a quiet place in the country where your mother assumed her maiden name. There within a year she died. She wasn’t a strong woman at any time. After that, well, you both know pretty well what has been the run of things since you began to know anything. We’ll leave that. It’s nothing to do with the story. I want to go back to your father. I saw him after his conviction. When I had satisfied him that you and your mother were safe, he begged me to do my best to find the two men who had ruined him. I began that search at once, but there was not a trace of them. They had disappeared as completely as if they were dead. I used all sorts of means to trace them without effect. And when at last your father’s term of imprisonment was over, and I went to see him on his release, I had to tell him that up to that point all my efforts had been useless. I urged him to let the thing drop and to start life a fresh, but he was determined. Find both men, but particularly Rey, he would. He refused point blank to even see his children until he had found these men, and had forced them to acknowledge their misdeeds as regards him, for that, of course, would have cleared him to a certain extent. And in spite of everything I could say, he there and then went off abroad in search of them. He had got some clue, faint and indefinite, but still there as to Ray’s presence in America, and he went after him. From that time until the morning of his death here in Rochester, I never saw him again. You did see him that morning? asked Mary. I saw him, of course, unexpectedly, answered Ransford. I had been across the close. I came back through the south aisle of the cathedral. Just before I left the west porch, I saw break going up the stairs to the galleries. I knew him at once. He did not see me, and I hurried home much upset. Unfortunately, I think Bryce came in upon me in that state of agitation. I have reason to believe that he began to suspect and to plot from that moment, and immediately on hearing of break’s death and its circumstances, I was placed in a terrible dilemma. For I had made up my mind never to tell you two of your father’s history until I had been able to trace these two men and ring out of them a confession which would have cleared him of all but the technical commission of the crime of which he was convicted. Now I had not the least idea that the two men were close at hand, nor that they had had any hand in his death. And so I kept silence and let him be buried under the name he had taken John Braden. Ransford paused and looked at his two listeners as if inviting question or comment, but neither spoke, and he went on. You know what happened after that, he continued. It soon became evident to me that sinister and secret things were going on. There was the death of the laborer Kishaw. There were other matters, but even then I had no suspicion of the real truth. The fact is I began to have some strange suspicions about Bryce and that old man Harker based upon certain evidence which I got by chance. But all this time I had never ceased my investigations about Ry and Flood. And when the bank manager on whom Break had called in London was here at the inquest, I privately told him the whole story and invited his cooperation in a certain line which I was then following. That line suddenly ran up against the man flood, otherwise Fladdgate. It was not until this very week, however, that my agents definitely discovered Flaggate to be Flood, and that through the investigations about Flood, Folate was found to be Rey. Today in London, where I met old Harker at the bank at which break had lodged the money he had brought from Australia, the whole thing was made clear by the last agent of mine who has had the searching in hand. And it shows how men may easily disappear from a certain round of life and turn up in another years after. When those two men cheated your father out of that money, they disappeared and separated each no doubt with his share. Flood went off to some obscure place in the north of England. Ry went over to America. He evidently made a fortune there, knocked about the world for a while, changed his name to Foliot, and under that name married a wealthy widow, and settled down here in Reich to grow roses. How and where he came across Flood again is not exactly clear, but we knew that a few years ago Flood was in London in very poor circumstances, and the probability is that it was then when the two men met again. What we do know is that Foliot as an influential man here got flood the post which he has held and that things have resulted as they have and that’s all all that I need tell you at present. There are details but they’re of no importance. Mary remained silent but Dick got up with his hands in his pockets. There’s one thing I want to know. He said which of those two chaps killed my father. You said it was accident but was it? I want to know about that. Are you saying it was accident just to let things down a bit? Don’t. I want to know the truth. I believe it was accident, answered Ransford. I listened most carefully just now to Flaggate’s account of what happened. I firmly believe the man was telling the truth. But I haven’t the least doubt that Folate poisoned Kishaw. Not the least. Foliot knew that if the least thing came out about Flaggate, everything would come out about himself. Dick turned away to leave the room. “Well, Folad’s done for,” he remarked. “I don’t care about him, but I wanted to know for certain about the other.” When Dick had gone, and Ransford and Mary were left alone, a deep silence fell on the room. Mary was apparently deep in thought, and Ransford, after a glance at her, turned away and looked out of the window at the sunlit close, thinking of the tragedy he had just witnessed. and he had become so absorbed in his thoughts of it that he started at feeling a touch on his arm and looking round saw Mary standing at his side. I don’t want to say anything now, she said about what you have just told us. Some of it I had half-g guessed, some of it I had conjectured. But why didn’t you tell me before? It wasn’t that you hadn’t confidence. Confidence? he exclaimed. There was only one reason I wanted to get your father’s memory cleared as far as possible before ever telling you anything. I’ve been wanting to tell you. Hadn’t you seen that I hated to keep silent? Hadn’t you seen that I wanted to share all your trouble about it? She asked. That was what hurt me because I couldn’t. Ransford drew a long breath and looked at her. Then he put his hands on her shoulders. Mary, he said, you you don’t mean to say be plain. You don’t mean that you can care for an old fellow like me? He was holding her away from him, but she suddenly smiled and came closer to him. You must have been very blind not to have seen that for a long time, she answered. Thank you for joining us for the Paradise Mystery. We hope you enjoyed this thrilling tale of suspense and deduction. If you liked the story, don’t forget to like, share, and subscribe for more classic detective mysteries. Until next time, stay curious and remember, there’s always more than meets the eye in a true mystery.

Welcome to Classic Detective Mysteries! In this intriguing episode, we present *The Paradise Mystery*, a captivating detective story by J. S. Fletcher. Prepare for a suspenseful journey filled with twists, turns, and shocking revelations. 🌟🔍

**Story Overview**

A serene paradise becomes the setting for a chilling crime, as an unexpected death shatters the tranquility. Detective [Name] is called in to investigate, uncovering secrets that seem to go beyond mere coincidence. What at first appears to be an accidental death soon reveals itself to be part of a much larger and more dangerous mystery.

As the detective dives deeper into the case, the hidden motives, dark pasts, and tangled relationships of the characters begin to unravel. Can they solve the mystery before more lives are lost? 🤔💼

**What to Expect in This Episode**

– A gripping mystery full of surprising twists and intense suspense 🔪
– A classic detective investigation with sharp, logical deductions 🧠🔎
– Engaging storytelling that will keep you on the edge of your seat until the very end 🎬

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