LITMIR.BIZ

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with Dr. Ransford terminated two days ago—so I’ve seen nothing of him.”

      “My son, Mr. Sackville Bonham,” said Mrs. Folliot, “tells me that yesterday Miss Bewery came into Gardales’ and spent a sovereign—actually a sovereign!—on a wreath, which, she told Sackville, she was about to carry, at her guardian’s desire, to this strange man’s grave. Sackville, who is a warm-hearted boy, was touched—he, too, bought flowers and accompanied Miss Bewery. Most extraordinary! A perfect stranger! Dear me—why, nobody knows who the man was!”

      “Except his bank-manager,” remarked Bryce, “who says he’s holding ten thousand pounds of his.”

      “That,” admitted Mrs. Folliot gravely, “is certainly a consideration. But then, who knows?—the money may have been stolen. Now, really, did you ever hear of a quite respectable man who hadn’t even a visiting-card or a letter upon him? And from Australia, too!—where all the people that are wanted run away to! I have actually been tempted to wonder, Dr. Bryce, if Dr. Ransford knew this man—in years gone by? He might have, you know, he might have—certainly! And that, of course, would explain the flowers.”

      “There is a great deal in the matter that requires explanation, Mrs. Folliot,” said Bryce. He was wondering if it would be wise to instil some minute drop of poison into the lady’s mind, there to increase in potency and in due course to spread. “I—of course, I may have been mistaken—I certainly thought Dr. Ransford seemed unusually agitated by this affair—it appeared to upset him greatly.”

      “So I have heard—from others who were at the inquest,” responded Mrs. Folliot. “In my opinion our Coroner—a worthy man otherwise—is not sufficiently particular. I said to Mr. Folliot this morning, on reading the newspaper, that in my view that inquest should have been adjourned for further particulars. Now I know of one particular that was never mentioned at the inquest!”

      “Oh?” said Bryce. “And what?”

      “Mrs. Deramore, who lives, as you know, next to Dr. Ransford,” replied Mrs. Folliot, “told me this morning that on the morning of the accident, happening to look out of one of her upper windows, she saw a man whom, from the description given in the newspapers, was, Mrs. Deramore feels assured, was the mysterious stranger, crossing the Close towards the Cathedral in, Mrs. Deramore is positive, a dead straight line from Dr. Ransford’s garden—as if he had been there. Dr. Bryce!—a direct question should have been asked of Dr. Ransford—had he ever seen that man before?”

      “Ah, but you see, Mrs. Folliot, the Coroner didn’t know what Mrs. Deramore saw, so he couldn’t ask such a question, nor could any one else,” remarked Bryce, who was wondering how long Mrs. Deramore remained at her upper window and if she saw him follow Braden. “But there are circumstances, no doubt, which ought to be inquired into. And it’s certainly very curious that Dr. Ransford should send a wreath to the grave of—a stranger.”

      He went away convinced that Mrs. Folliot’s inquisitiveness had been aroused, and that her tongue would not be idle: Mrs. Folliot, left to herself, had the gift of creating an atmosphere, and if she once got it into her head that there was some mysterious connection between Dr. Ransford and the dead man, she would never rest until she had spread her suspicions. But as for Bryce himself, he wanted more than suspicions—he wanted facts, particulars, data. And once more he began to go over the sum of evidence which had accrued.

      The question of the scrap of paper found in Braden’s purse, and of the exact whereabouts of Richard Jenkins’s grave in Paradise, he left for the time being. What was now interesting him chiefly was the advertisement in the Times to which the bank-manager from London had drawn attention. He had made haste to buy a copy of the Times and to cut out the advertisement. There it was—old friend Marco was wanted by (presumably old friend) Sticker, and whoever Sticker might be he could certainly be found under care of J. Braden. It had never been in doubt a moment, in Bryce’s mind, that Sticker was J. Braden himself. Who, now, was Marco? Who—a million to one on it!—but Ransford, whose Christian name was Mark?

      He reckoned up his chances of getting at the truth of the affair anew that night. As things were, it seemed unlikely that any relations of Braden would now turn up. The Wrychester Paradise case, as the reporters had aptly named it, had figured largely in the newspapers, London and provincial; it could scarcely have had more publicity—yet no one, save this bank-manager, had come forward. If there had been any one to come forward the bank-manager’s evidence would surely have proved an incentive to speed—for there was a sum of ten thousand pounds awaiting John Braden’s next-of-kin. In Bryce’s opinion the chance of putting in a claim to ten thousand pounds is not left waiting forty-eight hours—whoever saw such a chance would make instant use of telegraph or telephone. But no message from anybody professing relationship with the dead man had so far reached the Wrychester police.

      When everything had been taken into account, Bryce saw no better clue for the moment than that suggested by Ambrose Campany—Barthorpe. Ambrose Campany, bookworm though he was, was a shrewd, sharp fellow, said Bryce—a man of ideas. There was certainly much in his suggestion that a man wasn’t likely to buy an old book about a little insignificant town like Barthorpe unless he had some interest in it—Barthorpe, if Campany’s theory were true, was probably the place of John Braden’s origin.

      Therefore, information about Braden, leading to knowledge of his association or connection with Ransford, might be found at Barthorpe. True, the Barthorpe police had already reported that they could tell nothing about any Braden, but that, in Bryce’s opinion, was neither here nor there—he had already come to the conclusion that Braden was an assumed name. And if he went to Barthorpe, he was not going to trouble the police—he knew better methods than that of finding things out. Was he going?—was it worth his while? A moment’s reflection decided that matter—anything was worth his while which would help him to get a strong hold on Mark Ransford. And always practical in his doings, he walked round to the Free Library, obtained a gazeteer, and looked up particulars of Barthorpe. There he learnt that Barthorpe was an ancient market-town of two thousand inhabitants in the north of Leicestershire, famous for nothing except that it had been the scene of a battle at the time of the Wars of the Roses, and that its trade was mainly in agriculture and stocking-making—evidently a slow, sleepy old place.

      That night Bryce packed a hand-bag with small necessaries for a few days’ excursion, and next morning he took an early train to London; the end of that afternoon found him in a Midland northern-bound express, looking out on the undulating, green acres of Leicestershire. And while his train was making a three minutes’ stop at Leicester itself, the purpose of his journey was suddenly recalled to him by hearing the strident voices of the porters on the platform.

      “Barthorpe next stop!—next stop Barthorpe!”

      One of two other men who shared a smoking compartment with Bryce turned to his companion as the train moved off again.

      “Barthorpe?” he remarked. “That’s the place that was mentioned in connection with that very queer affair at Wrychester, that’s been reported in the papers so much these last few days. The mysterious stranger who kept ten thousand in a London bank, and of whom nobody seems to know anything, had nothing on him but a history of Barthorpe. Odd! And yet, though you’d think he’d some connection with the place, or had known it, they say nobody at Barthorpe knows anything about anybody of his name.”

      “Well, I don’t know that there is anything so very odd about it, after all,” replied the other man. “He may have picked up that old book for one of many reasons that could be suggested. No—I read all that case in the papers, and I wasn’t so much impressed by the old book feature of it. But I’ll tell you what—there was a thing struck me. I know this Barthorpe district—we shall be in it in a few minutes—I’ve been a good deal over it. This strange man’s name was given in the papers as John Braden. Now close to Barthorpe—a mile or two outside it, there’s a village of that name—Braden Medworth. That’s a curious coincidence—and taken in conjunction with the man’s possession of an old book about Barthorpe—why, perhaps there’s something in it—possibly more than I thought for at first.”

      “Well—it’s

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