we can talk to him?”
“You’ll have to wait a few days, then,” said Bryce. “He’s gone to town—by the last train tonight—on this business. I’ve sent him. I had some information today about Ransford’s whereabouts during the time of disappearance, and I’ve commissioned Harker to examine into it. When I hear what he’s found out, I’ll let you know.”
“You’re taking some trouble,” remarked Mitchington.
“I’ve told you the reason,” answered Bryce.
Mitchington hesitated a little; then, with a motion of his head towards the door, beckoned Jettison to follow him.
“All right,” he said. “There’s plenty for us to see into, I’m thinking!”
Bryce laughed and pointed to a shelf of books near the fireplace.
“Do you know what Napoleon Bonaparte once gave as sound advice to police?” he asked. “No! Then I’ll tell you. ‘The art of the police,’ he said, ‘is not to see that which it is useless for it to see.’ Good counsel, Mitchington!”
The two men went away through the midnight streets, and kept silence until they were near the door of Jettison’s hotel. Then Mitchington spoke.
“Well!” he said. “We’ve had a couple of tales, anyhow! What do you think of things, now?”
Jettison threw back his head with a dry laugh.
“Never been better puzzled in all my time!” he said. “Never! But—if that young doctor’s playing a game—then, by the Lord Harry, inspector, it’s a damned deep ‘un! And my advice is—watch the lot!”
Chapter XX. Jettison Takes a Hand
By breakfast time next morning the man from New Scotland Yard had accomplished a series of meditations on the confidences made to him and Mitchington the night before and had determined on at least one course of action. But before entering upon it he had one or two important letters to write, the composition of which required much thought and trouble, and by the time he had finished them, and deposited them by his own hand in the General Post Office, it was drawing near to noon—the great bell of the Cathedral, indeed, was proclaiming noontide to Wrychester as Jettison turned into the police-station and sought Mitchington in his office.
“I was just coming round to see if you’d overslept yourself,” said Mitchington good-humouredly. “We were up pretty late last night, or, rather, this morning.”
“I’ve had letters to write,” said Jettison. He sat down and picked up a newspaper and cast a casual glance over it. “Got anything fresh?”
“Well, this much,” answered Mitchington. “The two gentlemen who told us so much last night are both out of town. I made an excuse to call on them both early this morning—just on nine o’clock. Dr. Ransford went up to London by the eight-fifteen.
“Dr. Bryce, says his landlady, went out on his bicycle at half-past eight—where, she didn’t know, but, she fancied, into the country. However, I ascertained that Ransford is expected back this evening, and Bryce gave orders for his usual dinner to be ready at seven o’clock, and so—”
Jettison flung away the newspaper and pulled out his pipe.
“Oh, I don’t think they’ll run away—either of ‘em,” he remarked indifferently. “They’re both too cock-sure of their own ways of looking at things.”
“You looked at ‘em any more?” asked Mitchington.
“Done a bit of reflecting—yes,” replied the detective. “Complicated affair, my lad! More in it than one would think at first sight. I’m certain of this quite apart from whatever mystery there is about the Braden affair and the Collishaw murder, there’s a lot of scheming and contriving been going on—and is going on!—somewhere, by somebody. Underhand work, you understand? However, my particular job is the Collishaw business—and there’s a bit of information I’d like to get hold of at once. Where’s the office of that Friendly Society we heard about last night?”
“That’ll be the Wrychester Second Friendly,” answered Mitchington. “There are two such societies in the town—the first’s patronized by small tradesmen and the like; the second by workingmen. The second does take deposits from its members. The office is in Fladgate—secretary’s name outside—Mr. Stebbing. What are you after?”
“Tell you later,” said Jettison. “Just an idea.”
He went leisurely out and across the market square and into the narrow, old-world street called Fladgate, along which he strolled as if doing no more than looking about him until he came to an ancient shop which had been converted into an office, and had a wire blind over the lower half of its front window, wherein was woven in conspicuous gilt letters Wrychester Second Friendly Society—George Stebbing, Secretary. Nothing betokened romance or mystery in that essentially humble place, but it was in Jettison’s mind that when he crossed its threshold he was on his way to discovering something that would possibly clear up the problem on which he was engaged.
The staff of the Second Friendly was inconsiderable in numbers—an outer office harboured a small boy and a tall young man; an inner one accommodated Mr. Stebbing, also a young man, sandy-haired and freckled, who, having inspected Detective-Sergeant Jettison’s professional card, gave him the best chair in the room and stared at him with a mingling of awe and curiosity which plainly showed that he had never entertained a detective before. And as if to show his visitor that he realized the seriousness of the occasion, he nodded meaningly at his door.
“All safe, here, sir!” he whispered. “Well fitting doors in these old houses—knew how to make ‘em in those days. No chance of being overheard here—what can I do for you, sir?”
“Thank you—much obliged to you,” said Jettison. “No objection to my pipe, I suppose? Just so. Ah!—well, between you and me, Mr. Stebbing, I’m down here in connection with that Collishaw case—you know.”
“I know, sir—poor fellow!” said the secretary. “Cruel thing, sir, if the man was put an end to. One of our members, was Collishaw, sir.”
“So I understand,” remarked Jettison. “That’s what I’ve come about. Bit of information, on the quiet, eh? Strictly between our two selves—for the present.”
Stebbing nodded and winked, as if he had been doing business with detectives all his life. “To be sure, sir, to be sure!” he responded with alacrity. “Just between you and me and the door post!—all right. Anything I can do, Mr. Jettison, shall be done. But it’s more in the way of what I can tell, I suppose?”
“Something of that sort,” replied Jettison in his slow, easy-going fashion. “I want to know a thing or two. Yours is a working-man’s society, I think? Aye—and I understand you’ve a system whereby such a man can put his bits of savings by in your hands?”
“A capital system, too!” answered the secretary, seizing on a pamphlet and pushing it into his visitor’s hand. “I don’t believe there’s better in England! If you read that—”
“I’ll take a look at it some time,”
