in Wrychester that you’re a retired tradesman. I think you’re a retired policeman—of the detective branch.”
Harker laughed again.
“No Wrychester man has ever crossed my threshold since I came to settle down here,” he said. “You’re the first person I’ve ever asked in—with one notable exception. I’ve never even had Campany, the librarian, here. I’m a hermit.”
“But—you were a detective?” suggested Bryce.
“Aye, for a good five-and-twenty 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 Mitre,” 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 Varner fetched you to it, and that when Braden’s clothing and effects were searched by Mitchington, the paper wasn’t there. So, of course, you took it! Doesn’t matter to me that ye 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 Leicestershire.”
“You knew Braden?” asked Bryce.
“I knew him!” answered Harker.
“You saw him—spoke with him—here in Wrychester?” suggested Bryce.
“He was here—in this room—in that chair—from five minutes past nine to close on ten o’clock 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 awhile.
“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 Wrychester?” inquired Bryce.
“Yes,” said Harker. “The boy and girl who live with Ransford—they’re Brake’s son and daughter.”
“Did Brake 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 Barthorpe?” suggested Bryce.
“Not a bit of it; I worked it out here—after Brake was dead,” said Harker. “I went to Barthorpe on quite different business—Brake’s 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,” assented Bryce.
Harker 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 Brake? I know you went down to Barthorpe to find out what you could—how far did your searches take you?”
“I know that Brake 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 ten 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 Brake’s trial. It was I who arrested Brake. 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 cruelly deceived. There was no defence—couldn’t be. His counsel 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, ten 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 Wrychester, the other night, when he came to the Mitre. I knew him at once—and he knew me. We met under one of those big standard lamps in the Market Place—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 well-to-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 travelled 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’d 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, Mr.—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 ‘em—though I never had one penny of the money I was fool enough to take for the time being—not one halfpenny!’ ‘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
