never told anybody—up to now. I shan’t ask you to respect my confidence—I’ve sufficient trust in you to know that you will, without any asking. Listen!—on that morning, Dr. Ransford went out of the surgery in the direction of the Deanery, leaving me alone there. A few minutes later, a tap came at the door. I opened it—and found—a man standing outside!”
“Not—that man?” asked Mary fearfully.
“That man—Braden,” replied Bryce. “He asked for Dr. Ransford. I said he was out—would the caller leave his name? He said no—he had called because he had once known a Dr. Ransford, years before. He added something about calling again, and he went away—across the Close towards the Cathedral. I saw him again—not very long afterwards—lying in the corner of Paradise—dead!”
Mary Bewery was by this time pale and trembling—and Bryce continued to watch her steadily. She stole a furtive look at him.
“Why didn’t you tell all this at the inquest?” she asked in a whisper.
“Because I knew how damning it would be to—Ransford,” replied Bryce promptly. “It would have excited suspicion. I was certain that no one but myself knew that Braden had been to the surgery door—therefore, I thought that if I kept silence, his calling there would never be known. But—I have since found that I was mistaken. Braden was seen—going away from Dr. Ransford’s.”
“By—whom?” asked Mary.
“Mrs. Deramore—at the next house,” answered Bryce. “She happened to be looking out of an upstairs window. She saw him go away and cross the Close.”
“Did she tell you that?” demanded Mary, who knew Mrs. Deramore for a gossip.
“Between ourselves,” said Bryce, “she did not! She told Mrs. Folliot—Mrs. Folliot told me.”
“So—it is talked about!” exclaimed Mary.
“I said so,” assented Bryce. “You know what Mrs. Folliot’s tongue is.”
“Then Dr. Ransford will get to hear of it,” said Mary.
“He will be the last person to get to hear of it,” affirmed Bryce. “These things are talked of, hole-and-corner fashion, a long time before they reach the ears of the person chiefly concerned.”
Mary hesitated a moment before she asked her next question.
“Why have you told me all this?” she demanded at last.
“Because I didn’t want you to be suddenly surprised,” answered Bryce. “This—whatever it is—may come to a sudden head—of an unpleasant sort. These rumours spread—and the police are still keen about finding out things concerning this dead man. If they once get it into their heads that Dr. Ransford knew him—”
Mary laid her hand on the gate between them—and Bryce, who had done all he wished to do at that time, instantly opened it, and she passed through.
“I am much obliged to you,” she said. “I don’t know what it all means—but it is Dr. Ransford’s affair—if there is any affair, which I doubt. Will you let me go now, please?”
Bryce stood aside and lifted his hat, and Mary, with no more than a nod, walked on towards the golf club-house across the Common, while Bryce turned off to the town, highly elated with his morning’s work. He had sown the seeds of uneasiness and suspicion broadcast—some of them, he knew, would mature.
Mary Bewery played no golf that morning. In fact, she only went on to the club-house to rid herself of Bryce, and presently she returned home, thinking. And indeed, she said to herself, she had abundant food for thought. Naturally candid and honest, she did not at that moment doubt Bryce’s good faith; much as she disliked him in most ways she knew that he had certain commendable qualities, and she was inclined to believe him when he said that he had kept silence in order to ward off consequences which might indirectly be unpleasant for her. But of him and his news she thought little—what occupied her mind was the possible connection between the stranger who had come so suddenly and disappeared so suddenly—and for ever!—and Mark Ransford. Was it possible—really possible—that there had been some meeting between them in or about the Cathedral precincts that morning? She knew, after a moment’s reflection, that it was very possible—why not? And from that her thoughts followed a natural trend—was the mystery surrounding this man connected in any way with the mystery about herself and her brother?—that mystery of which (as it seemed to her) Ransford was so shy of speaking. And again—and for the hundredth time—she asked herself why he was so reticent, so evidently full of dislike of the subject, why he could not tell her and Dick whatever there was to tell, once for all?
She had to pass the Folliots’ house in the far corner of the Close on her way home—a fine old mansion set in well-wooded grounds, enclosed by a high wall of old red brick. A door in that wall stood open, and inside it, talking to one of his gardeners, was Mr. Folliot—the vistas behind him were gay with flowers and rich with the roses which he passed all his days in cultivating. He caught sight of Mary as she passed the open doorway and called her back.
“Come in and have a look at some new roses I’ve got,” he said. “Beauties! I’ll give you a handful to carry home.”
Mary rather liked Mr. Folliot. He was a big, half-asleep sort of man, who had few words and could talk about little else than his hobby. But he was a passionate lover of flowers and plants, and had a positive genius for rose-culture, and was at all times highly delighted to take flower-lovers round his garden. She turned at once and walked in, and Folliot led her away down the scented paths.
“It’s an experiment I’ve been trying,” he said, leading her up to a cluster of blooms of a colour and size which she had never seen before. “What do you think of the results?”
“Magnificent!” exclaimed Mary. “I never saw anything so fine!”
“No!” agreed Folliot, with a quiet chuckle. “Nor anybody else—because there’s no such rose in England. I shall have to go to some of these learned parsons in the Close to invent me a Latin name for this—it’s the result of careful experiments in grafting—took me three years to get at it. And see how it blooms,—scores on one standard.”
He pulled out a knife and began to select a handful of the finest blooms, which he presently pressed into Mary’s hand.
“By the by,” he remarked as she thanked him and they turned away along the path, “I wanted to have a word with you—or with Ransford. Do you know—does he know—that that confounded silly woman who lives near to your house—Mrs. Deramore—has been saying some things—or a thing—which—to put it plainly—might make some unpleasantness for him?”
Mary kept a firm hand on her wits—and gave him an answer which was true enough, so far as she was aware.
“I’m sure he knows nothing,” she said. “What is it, Mr. Folliot?”
“Why, you know what happened last week,” continued Folliot, glancing knowingly at her. “The accident to that stranger. This Mrs. Deramore, who’s nothing but an old chatterer, has been saying, here and there, that it’s a very queer thing Dr. Ransford doesn’t know anything about him, and can’t say anything, for she herself, she says, saw the very man going away from Dr. Ransford’s house not so long before the accident.”
“I am not aware that
