LITMIR.BIZ

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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 to walk up and down his end of the room, smoking and evidently in very deep thought. The visitors left him alone, watching him curiously now and then—until, when quite ten minutes had gone by, he suddenly drew a chair close to them and sat down again.

      “Now, listen to me!” he said. “If I give my confidence to you, as police officials, will you give me your word that you won’t make use of my information until I give you leave—or until you have consulted me further? I shall rely on your word, mind!”

      “I say yes to that, doctor,” answered Mitchington.

      “The same here, sir,” said the detective.

      “Very well,” continued Ransford. “Then—this is between ourselves, until such time as I say something more about it. First of all, I am not going to tell you anything whatever about Braden’s antecedents—at present! Secondly—I am not sure that your theory, Mr. Jettison, is entirely correct, though I think it is by way of coming very near to the right one—which is sure to be worked out before long. But—on the understanding of secrecy for the present I can tell you something which I should not have been able to tell you but for the events of tonight, which have made me put together certain facts. Now attention! To begin with, I know where Braden was for at any rate some time on the evening of the day on which he came to Wrychester. He was with the old man whom we all know as Simpson Harker.”

      Mitchington whistled; the detective, who knew nothing of Simpson Harker, glanced at him as if for information. But Mitchington nodded at Ransford, and Ransford went on.

      “I know this for this reason,” he continued. “You know where Harker lives. I was in attendance for nearly two hours that evening on a patient in a house opposite—I spent a good deal of time in looking out of the window. I saw Harker take a man into his house: I saw the man leave the house nearly an hour later: I recognized that man next day as the man who met his death at the Cathedral. So much for that.”

      “Good!” muttered Mitchington. “Good! Explains a lot.”

      “But,” continued Ransford, “what I have to tell you now is of a much more serious—and confidential—nature. Now, do you know—but, of course, you don’t!—that your proceedings tonight were watched?”

      “Watched!” exclaimed Mitchington. “Who watched us?”

      “Harker, for one,” answered Ransford. “And—for another—my late assistant, Mr. Pemberton Bryce.”

      Mitchington’s jaw dropped.

      “God bless my soul!” he said. “You don’t mean it, doctor! Why, how did you—”

      “Wait a minute,” interrupted Ransford. He left the room, and the two callers looked at each other.

      “This chap knows more than you think,” observed Jettison in a whisper. “More than he’s telling now!”

      “Let’s get all we can, then,” said Mitchington, who was obviously much surprised by Ransford’s last information. “Get it while he’s in the mood.”

      “Let him take his own time,” advised Jettison. “But—you mark me!—he knows a lot! This is only an instalment.”

      Ransford came back—with Dick Bewery, clad in a loud patterned and gaily coloured suit of pyjamas.

      “Now, Dick,” said Ransford. “Tell Inspector Mitchington precisely what happened this evening, within your own knowledge.”

      Dick was nothing loth to tell his story for the second time—especially to a couple of professional listeners. And he told it in full detail, from the moment of his sudden encounter with Bryce to that in which he parted with Bryce and Harker. Ransford, watching the official faces, saw what it was in the story that caught the official attention and excited the official mind.

      “Dr. Bryce went off at once to fetch Harker, did he?” asked Mitchington, when Dick had made a end.

      “At once,” answered Dick. “And was jolly quick back with him!”

      “And Harker said it didn’t matter about your telling as it would be public news soon enough?” continued Mitchington.

      “Just that,” said Dick.

      Mitchington looked at Ransford, and Ransford nodded to his ward.

      “All right, Dick,” he said. “That’ll do.”

      The boy went off again, and Mitchington shook his head.

      “Queer!” he said. “Now what have those two been up to?—something, that’s certain. Can you tell us more, doctor?”

      “Under the same conditions—yes,” answered Ransford, taking his seat again. “The fact is, affairs have got to a stage where I consider it my duty to tell you more. Some of what I shall tell you is hearsay—but it’s hearsay that you can easily verify for yourselves when the right moment comes. Mr. Campany, the librarian, lately remarked to me that my old assistant, Mr. Bryce, seemed to be taking an extraordinary interest in archaeological matters since he left me—he was now, said Campany, always examining documents about the old tombs and monuments of the Cathedral and its precincts.”

      “Ah—just so!” exclaimed Mitchington. “To be sure!—I’m beginning to see!”

      “And,” continued Ransford, “Campany further remarked, as a matter for humorous comment, that Bryce was also spending much time looking round our old tombs. Now you made this discovery near an old tomb, I understand?”

      “Close by one—yes,” assented the inspector.

      “Then let me draw your attention to one or two strange facts—which are undoubted facts,” continued Ransford. “Bryce was left alone with the dead body of Braden for some minutes, while Varner went to fetch the police. That’s one.”

      “That’s true,” muttered Mitchington. “He was—several minutes!”

      “Bryce it was who discovered Collishaw—in Paradise,”

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