LITMIR.BIZ

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Brake’s best man and a witness of the marriage. Now, Mr. Gilwaters, the similarity in names is too striking to be devoid of significance. So—it’s of the utmost importance to me!—can or will you tell me—who was the Mary Bewery you married to John Brake? Who was John Brake? And what was Mark Ransford to either, or to both?”

      He was wondering, all the time during which he reeled off these questions, if Mr. Gilwaters was wholly ignorant of the recent affair at Wrychester. He might be—a glance round his book-filled room had suggested to Bryce that he was much more likely to be a bookworm than a newspaper reader, and it was quite possible that the events of the day had small interest for him. And his first words in reply to Bryce’s questions convinced Bryce that his surmise was correct and that the old man had read nothing of the Wrychester Paradise mystery, in which Ransford’s name had, of course, figured as a witness at the inquest.

      “It is nearly twenty years since I heard any of their names,” remarked Mr. Gilwaters. “Nearly twenty years—a long time! But, of course, I can answer you. Mary Bewery was our governess at Braden Medworth. She came to us when she was nineteen—she was married four years later. She was a girl who had no friends or relatives—she had been educated at a school in the North—I engaged her from that school, where, I understood, she had lived since infancy. Now then, as to Brake and Ransford. They were two young men from London, who used to come fishing in Leicestershire. Ransford was a few years the younger—he was either a medical student in his last year, or he was an assistant somewhere in London. Brake—was a bank manager in London—of a branch of one of the big banks. They were pleasant young fellows, and I used to ask them to the vicarage. Eventually, Mary Bewery and John Brake became engaged to be married. My wife and I were a good deal surprised—we had believed, somehow, that the favoured man would be Ransford. However, it was Brake—and Brake she married, and, as you say, Ransford was best man. Of course, Brake took his wife off to London—and from the day of her wedding, I never saw her again.”

      “Did you ever see Brake again?” asked Bryce. The old clergyman shook his head.

      “Yes!” he said sadly. “I did see Brake again—under grievous, grievous circumstances!”

      “You won’t mind telling me what circumstances?” suggested Bryce. “I will keep your confidence, Mr. Gilwaters.”

      “There is really no secret in it—if it comes to that,” answered the old man. “I saw John Brake again just once. In a prison cell!”

      “A prison cell!” exclaimed Bryce. “And he—a prisoner?”

      “He had just been sentenced to ten years’ penal servitude,” replied Mr. Gilwaters. “I had heard the sentence—I was present. I got leave to see him. Ten years’ penal servitude!—a terrible punishment. He must have been released long ago—but I never heard more.”

      Bryce reflected in silence for a moment—reckoning and calculating.

      “When was this—the trial?” he asked.

      “It was five years after the marriage—seventeen years ago,” replied Mr. Gilwaters.

      “And—what had he been doing?” inquired Bryce.

      “Stealing the bank’s money,” answered the old man. “I forget what the technical offence was—embezzlement, or something of that sort. There was not much evidence came out, for it was impossible to offer any defence, and he pleaded guilty. But I gathered from what I heard that something of this sort occurred. Brake was a branch manager. He was, as it were, pounced upon one morning by an inspector, who found that his cash was short by two or three thousand pounds. The bank people seemed to have been unusually strict and even severe—Brake, it was said, had some explanation, but it was swept aside and he was given in charge. And the sentence was as I said just now—a very savage one, I thought. But there had recently been some bad cases of that sort in the banking world, and I suppose the judge felt that he must make an example. Yes—a most trying affair!—I have a report of the case somewhere, which I cut out of a London newspaper at the time.”

      Mr. Gilwaters rose and turned to an old desk in the corner of his room, and after some rummaging of papers in a drawer, produced a newspaper-cutting book and traced an insertion in its pages. He handed the book to his visitor.

      “There is the account,” he said. “You can read it for yourself. You will notice that in what Brake’s counsel said on his behalf there are one or two curious and mysterious hints as to what might have been said if it had been of any use or advantage to say it. A strange case!”

      Bryce turned eagerly to the faded scrap of newspaper.

      BANK MANAGER’S DEFALCATION.

       At the Central Criminal Court yesterday, John Brake,

       thirty-three, formerly manager of the Upper Tooting

       branch of the London & Home Counties Bank, Ltd.,

       pleaded guilty to embezzling certain sums, the

       property of his employers.

       Mr. Walkinshaw, Q.C., addressing the court on behalf

       of the prisoner, said that while it was impossible

       for his client to offer any defence, there were

       circumstances in the case which, if it had been worth

       while to put them in evidence, would have shown that

       the prisoner was a wronged and deceived man. To use

       a Scriptural phrase, Brake had been wounded in the

       house of his friend. The man who was really guilty

       in this affair had cleverly escaped all consequences,

       nor would it be of the least use to enter into any

       details respecting him. Not one penny of the money

       in question had been used by the prisoner for his own

       purposes. It was doubtless a wrong and improper thing

       that his client had done, and he had pleaded guilty and

       would submit to the consequences. But if everything in

       connection with the case could have been told, if it

       would have served any useful purpose to tell it, it

       would have been seen that what the prisoner really was

       guilty of was a foolish and serious error of judgment.

       He himself, concluded the learned counsel, would go so

       far as to say that, knowing what he did, knowing what

       had been told him by his client in strict confidence,

       the prisoner, though technically guilty, was morally

       innocent.

       His Lordship, merely remarking that no excuse of any

       sort could be offered in a case of this sort, sentenced

       the prisoner to ten years’ penal servitude.

      Bryce read this over twice before handing back the book.

      “Very strange and mysterious, Mr. Gilwaters,” he remarked. “You say that you saw Brake after the case was over. Did you learn anything?”

      “Nothing whatever!” answered the old clergyman. “I got permission to see him before he was taken away. He did not seem particularly pleased or disposed to see me. I begged him to tell me what the real truth was. He was, I think, somewhat dazed by the sentence—but he was also sullen and morose. I asked him where his wife and two children—one, a mere infant—were. For I had already been to his private address and had found that Mrs. Brake had sold all the furniture and disappeared—completely. No one—thereabouts, at any rate—knew where she was, or would tell me anything. On my asking this, he refused to answer. I pressed him—he said finally that he was only speaking the truth when he replied that he did not know where his wife was. I said I must find her. He forbade me to make any attempt. Then I begged him to tell me if she was with

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