clerestory, clearing away some timber which thecarpenters had left there. Collishaw was certainly
thus engaged from nine o’clock until past eleven
that morning. Mem. Have investigated this myself.
From the exact spot where C. was clearing the timber,
there is an uninterrupted view of the gallery on the
south side of the nave, and of the arched doorway at
the head of St. Wrytha’s Stair.’”
“‘Well,” observed Jettison, “that proves what I’m saying. It wasn’t hush-money. For whoever it was that Collishaw saw lay hands on Braden, it wasn’t Bryce—Bryce, we know, was at that time coming across the Close or crossing that path through the part you call Paradise: Varner’s evidence proves that. So—if the fifty pounds wasn’t paid for hush-money, what was it paid for?”
“Do you suggest anything?” asked Mitchington.
“I’ve thought of two or three things,” answered the detective. “One’s this—was the fifty pounds paid for information? If so, and Bryce has that information, why doesn’t he show his hand more plainly? If he bribed Collishaw with fifty pounds: to tell him who Braden’s assailant was, he now knows!—so why doesn’t he let it out, and have done with it?”
“Part of his game—if that theory’s right,” murmured Mitchington.
“It mayn’t be right,” said Jettison. “But it’s one. And there’s another—supposing he paid Collishaw that money on behalf of somebody else? I’ve thought this business out right and left, top-side and bottom-side, and hang me if I don’t feel certain there is somebody else! What did Ransford tell us about Bryce and this old Harker—think of that! And yet, according to Bryce, Harker is one of our old Yard men!—and therefore ought to be above suspicion.”
Mitchington suddenly started as if an idea had occurred to him.
“I say, you know!” he exclaimed. “We’ve only Bryce’s word for it that Harker is an ex-detective. I never heard that he was—if he is, he’s kept it strangely quiet. You’d have thought that he’d have let us know, here, of his previous calling—I never heard of a policeman of any rank who didn’t like to have a bit of talk with his own sort about professional matters.”
“Nor me,” assented Jettison. “And as you say, we’ve only Bryce’s word. And, the more I think of it, the more I’m convinced there’s somebody—some man of whom you don’t seem to have the least idea—who’s in this. And it may be that Bryce is in with him. However—here’s one thing I’m going to do at once. Bryce gave us that information about the fifty pounds. Now I’m going to tell Bryce straight out that I’ve gone into that matter in my own fashion—a fashion he evidently never thought of—and ask him to explain why he drew a similar amount in gold. Come on round to his rooms.”
But Bryce was not to be found at his rooms—had not been back to his rooms, said his landlady, since he had ridden away early in the morning: all she knew was that he had ordered his dinner to be ready at his usual time that evening. With that the two men had to be content, and they went back to the police-station still discussing the situation. And they were still discussing it an hour later when a telegram was handed to Mitchington, who tore it open, glanced over its contents and passed it to his companion who read it aloud.
“Meet me with Jettison Wrychester Station on arrival of five-twenty express from London mystery cleared up guilty men known—Ransford.”
Jettison handed the telegram back.
“A man of his word!” he said. “He mentioned two days—he’s done it in one! And now, my lad—do you notice?—he says men, not man! It’s as I said—there’s been more than one of ‘em in this affair. Now then—who are they?”
Chapter XXI. The Saxonsteade Arms
Bryce had ridden away on his bicycle from Wrychester that morning intent on a new piece of diplomacy. He had sat up thinking for some time after the two police officials had left him at midnight, and it had occurred to him that there was a man from whom information could be had of whose services he had as yet made no use but who must be somewhere in the neighbourhood—the man Glassdale. Glassdale had been in Wrychester the previous evening; he could scarcely be far away now; there was certainly one person who would know where he could be found, and that person was the Duke of Saxonsteade. Bryce knew the Duke to be an extremely approachable man, a talkative, even a garrulous man, given to holding converse with anybody about anything, and he speedily made up his mind to ride over to Saxonsteade, invent a plausible excuse for his call, and get some news out of his Grace. Even if Glassdale had left the neighbourhood, there might be fragments of evidence to pick up from the Duke, for Glassdale, he knew, had given his former employer the information about the stolen jewels and would, no doubt, have added more about his acquaintance with Braden. And before Bryce came to his dreamed-of master-stroke in that matter, there were one or two things he wanted to clear up, to complete his double net, and he had an idea that an hour’s chat with Glassdale would yield all that he desired.
The active brain that had stood Bryce in good stead while he spun his meshes and devised his schemes was more active than ever that early summer morning. It was a ten-mile ride through woods and valleys to Saxonsteade, and there were sights and beauties of nature on either side of him which any other man would have lingered to admire and most men would have been influenced by. But Bryce had no eyes for the clouds over the copper-crowned hills or the mystic shadows in the deep valleys or the new buds in the hedgerows, and no thought for the rustic folk whose cottages he passed here and there in a sparsely populated country. All his thoughts were fixed on his schemes, almost as mechanically as his eyes followed the white road in front of his wheel. Ever since he had set out on his campaign he had regularly taken stock of his position; he was for ever reckoning it up. And now, in his opinion, everything looked very promising. He had—so far as he was aware—created a definite atmosphere of suspicion around and against Ransford—it needed only a little more suggestion, perhaps a little more evidence to bring about Ransford’s arrest. And the only question which at all troubled Bryce was—should he let matters go to that length before putting his ultimatum before Mary Bewery, or should he show her his hand first? For Bryce had so worked matters that a word from him to the police would damn Ransford or save him—and now it all depended, so far as Bryce himself was concerned, on Mary Bewery as to which word should be said. Elaborate as the toils were which he had laid out for Ransford to the police, he could sweep them up and tear them away with a sentence of added knowledge—if Mary Bewery made it worth his while. But first—before coming to the critical point—there was yet certain information which he desired to get, and he felt sure of getting it if he could find Glassdale. For Glassdale, according to all accounts, had known Braden intimately of late years, and was most likely in possession of facts about him—and Bryce had full confidence in himself as an interviewer of other men and a supreme belief that he could wheedle a secret out of anybody with whom he could procure an hour’s quiet conversation.
As luck would have it, Bryce had no need to make a call upon the approachable and friendly Duke. Outside the little village at Saxonsteade, on the edge of the deep woods which fringed the ducal park, stood an old wayside inn, a relic of the coaching days, which bore on its sign the ducal arms. Into its old stone hall marched Bryce to refresh himself after his ride, and as he stood at the bow-windowed bar, he glanced into the garden beyond and there saw, comfortably smoking
