Mitchington glanced at the door and lowered his voice. “I may as well tell you, doctor,” he said confidentially, “there’s been a most extraordinary discovery made tonight, which has a bearing on the Braden case. I dare say you’ve heard of the great jewel robbery which took place at the Duke of Saxonsteade’s some years ago, which has been a mystery to this very day?”
“I have heard of it,” answered Ransford.
“Very well—tonight those jewels—the whole lot!—have been discovered in Paradise yonder, where they’d been buried, at the time of the robbery, by the thief,” continued Mitchington. “They’ve just been examined, and they’re now in the Duke’s own hands again—after all these years! And—I may as well tell you—we now know that the object of Braden’s visit to Wrychester was to tell the Duke where those jewels were hidden. Braden—and another man—had learned the secret, from the real thief, who’s dead in Australia. All that I may tell you, doctor—for it’ll be public property tomorrow.”
“Well?” said Ransford.
Mitchington hesitated a moment, as if searching for his next words. He glanced at the detective; the detective remained immobile; he glanced at Ransford; Ransford gave him no encouragement.
“Now look here, doctor!” he exclaimed, suddenly. “Why not tell us something? We know now who Braden really was! That’s settled. Do you understand?”
“Who was he, then?” asked Ransford, quietly.
“He was one John Brake, some time manager of a branch of a London bank, who, seventeen years ago, got ten years’ penal servitude for embezzlement,” answered Mitchington, watching Ransford steadily. “That’s dead certain—we know it! The man who shared this secret with him about the Saxonsteade jewels has told us that much, today. John Brake!”
“What have you come here for?” asked Ransford.
“To ask you—between ourselves—if you can tell us anything about Brake’s earlier days—antecedents—that’ll help us,” replied Mitchington. “It may be—Jettison here—a man of experience—thinks it’ll be found to be—that Brake, or Braden as we call him—was murdered because of his possession of that secret about the jewels. Our informant tells us that Braden certainly had on him, when he came to Wrychester, a sort of diagram showing the exact location of the spot where the jewels were hidden—that diagram was most assuredly not found on Braden when we examined his clothing and effects. It may be that it was wrested from him in the gallery of the clerestory that morning, and that his assailant, or assailants—for there may have been two men at the job—afterwards pitched him through that open doorway, after half-stifling him. And if that theory’s correct—and I, personally, am now quite inclined to it—it’ll help a lot if you’ll tell us what you know of Braden’s—Brake’s—antecedents. Come now, doctor!—you know very well that Braden, or Brake, did come to your surgery that morning and said to your assistant that he’d known a Dr. Ransford in times past! Why not speak?”
Ransford, instead of answering Mitchington’s evidently genuine appeal, looked at the New Scotland Yard man.
“Is that your theory?” he asked.
Jettison nodded his head, with a movement indicative of conviction.
“Yes, sir!” he replied. “Having regard to all the circumstances of the case, as they’ve been put before me since I came here, and with special regard to the revelations which have resulted in the discovery of these jewels, it is! Of course, today’s events have altered everything. If it hadn’t been for our informant—”
“Who is your informant?” inquired Ransford.
The two callers looked at each other—the detective nodded at the inspector.
“Oh, well!” said Mitchington. “No harm in telling you, doctor. A man named Glassdale—once a fellow-convict with Brake. It seems they left England together after their time was up, emigrated together, prospered, even went so far—both of ‘em!—as to make good the money they’d appropriated, and eventually came back together—in possession of this secret. Brake came specially to Wrychester to tell the Duke—Glassdale was to join him on the very morning Brake met his death. Glassdale did come to the town that morning—and as soon as he got here, heard of Brake’s strange death. That upset him—and he went away—only to come back today, go to Saxonsteade, and tell everything to the Duke—with the result we’ve told you of.”
“Which result,” remarked Ransford, steadily regarding Mitchington, “has apparently altered all your ideas about—me!”
Mitchington laughed a little awkwardly.
“Oh, well, come, now, doctor!” he said. “Why, yes—frankly, I’m inclined to Jettison’s theory—in fact, I’m certain that’s the truth.”
“And your theory,” inquired Ransford, turning to the detective, “is—put it in a few words.”
“My theory—and I’ll lay anything it’s the correct one!—is this,” replied Jettison. “Brake came to Wrychester with his secret. That secret wasn’t confined to him and Glassdale—either he let it out to somebody, or it was known to somebody. I understand from Inspector Mitchington here that on the evening of his arrival Brake was away from the Mitre Hotel for two hours. During that time, he was somewhere—with whom? Probably with somebody who got the secret out of him, or to whom he communicated it. For, think!—according to Glassdale, who, we are quite sure, has told the exact truth about everything, Brake had on him a scrap of paper, on which were instructions, in Latin, for finding the exact spot whereat the missing Saxonsteade jewels had been hidden, years before, by the actual thief—who, I may tell you, sir, never had the opportunity of returning to re-possess himself of them. Now, after Brake’s death, the police examined his clothes and effects—they never found that scrap of paper! And I work things out this way. Brake was followed into that gallery—a lonely, quiet place—by the man or men who had got possession of the secret; he was, I’m told, a slightly-built, not over-strong man—he was seized and robbed of that paper and flung to his death. And all that fits in with the second mystery of Collishaw—who probably knew, if not everything, then something, of the exact circumstances of Brake’s death, and let his knowledge get to the ears of—Brake’s assailant!—who cleverly got rid of him. That’s my notion,” concluded the detective. “And—I shall be surprised if it isn’t a correct one!”
“And, as I’ve said, doctor,” chimed in Mitchington, “can’t you give us a bit of information, now? You see the line we’re on? Now, as it’s evident you once knew Braden, or Brake—”
“I have never said so!” interrupted Ransford sharply.
“Well—we infer it, from the undoubted fact that he called here,” remarked Mitchington. “And if—”
“Wait!” said Ransford. He had been listening with absorbed attention to Jettison’s theory, and he now rose from his chair and began to pace the room, hands in pockets, as if in deep thought. Suddenly he paused and looked at Mitchington. “This needs some reflection,” he said. “Are you pressed for time?”
“Not in the least,” answered Mitchington, readily. “Our time’s yours, sir. Take as long as you like.”
Ransford touched a bell and summoning the parlourmaid told her to fetch whisky, soda, and cigars. He pressed these things on the two men, lighted a cigar himself, and for a long time continued
