some other medical man than myself to see him before he’s moved—I’ll have him here in five 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 twenty 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 IV. The Room at the Mitre
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 is 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. Wrytha’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 any one 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 well-to-do tourist. A slightly-built, elderly man—grey-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 too evident facts, that Ransford was hearing of the Paradise affair for the first time.
“An elderly man—grey-haired—slightly built?” said Ransford. “Dark clothes—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’ acquaintanceship, 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 Mitchington. “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 Mitchington. “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, Mitchington. You’d better have the body removed to the mortuary.” 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?”
Mitchington looked at Bryce.
“Haven’t you told Dr. Ransford how it was?” he asked.
“No,” answered Bryce. He glanced at Ransford, indicating Varner, 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. Varner 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 Varner, nodding at the dead man. “Flung, head and heels, clean through that doorway up there. Hadn’t a chance to save himself, 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 Varner with a set, concentrated look.
“Who—flung him?” he asked suddenly. “You say you saw!”
“Aye, 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, Mitchington,” 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 mortuary 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 Mitre, talking to another gentleman—a tallish man.”
“Then I’ll go across there,” said Mitchington. “Come with me, if you like, Dr. Bryce.”
This
