LITMIR.BIZ

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left the train at Barthorpe thanking his good luck—the man in the far corner had unwittingly given him a hint. He would pay a visit to Braden Medworth—the coincidence was too striking to be neglected. But first Barthorpe itself—a quaint old-world little market-town, in which some of even the principal houses still wore roofs of thatch, and wherein the old custom of ringing the curfew bell was kept up. He found an old-fashioned hotel in the marketplace, under the shadow of the parish church, and in its oak-panelled dining-room, hung about with portraits of masters of foxhounds and queer old prints of sporting and coaching days, he dined comfortably and well.

      It was too late to attempt any investigations that evening, and when Bryce had finished his leisurely dinner he strolled into the smoking-room—an even older and quainter apartment than that which he had just left. It was one of those rooms only found in very old houses—a room of nooks and corners, with a great open fireplace, and old furniture and old pictures and curiosities—the sort of place to which the old-fashioned tradesmen of the small provincial towns still resort of an evening rather than patronize the modern political clubs. There were several men of this sort in the room when Bryce entered, talking local politics amongst themselves, and he found a quiet corner and sat down in it to smoke, promising himself some amusement from the conversation around him; it was his way to find interest and amusement in anything that offered. But he had scarcely settled down in a comfortably cushioned elbow chair when the door opened again and into the room walked old Simpson Harker.

Chapter VIII. The Best Man

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      Old Harker’s shrewd eyes, travelling round the room as if to inspect the company in which he found himself, fell almost immediately on Bryce—but not before Bryce had had time to assume an air and look of innocent and genuine surprise. Harker affected no surprise at all—he looked the astonishment he felt as the younger man rose and motioned him to the comfortable easy-chair which he himself had just previously taken.

      “Dear me!” he exclaimed, nodding his thanks. “I’d no idea that I should meet you in these far-off parts, Dr. Bryce! This is a long way from Wrychester, sir, for Wrychester folk to meet in.”

      “I’d no idea of meeting you, Mr. Harker,” responded Bryce. “But it’s a small world, you know, and there are a good many coincidences in it. There’s nothing very wonderful in my presence here, though—I ran down to see after a country practice—I’ve left Dr. Ransford.”

      He had the lie ready as soon as he set eyes on Harker, and whether the old man believed it or not, he showed no sign of either belief or disbelief. He took the chair which Bryce drew forward and pulled out an old-fashioned cigar-case, offering it to his companion.

      “Will you try one, doctor?” he asked. “Genuine stuff that, sir—I’ve a friend in Cuba who remembers me now and then. No,” he went on, as Bryce thanked him and took a cigar, “I didn’t know you’d finished with the doctor. Quietish place this to practise in, I should think—much quieter even than our sleepy old city.”

      “You know it?” inquired Bryce.

      “I’ve a friend lives here—old friend of mine,” answered Harker. “I come down to see him now and then—I’ve been here since yesterday. He does a bit of business for me. Stopping long, doctor?”

      “Only just to look round,” answered Bryce.

      “I’m off tomorrow morning—eleven o’clock,” said Harker. “It’s a longish journey to Wrychester—for old bones like mine.”

      “Oh, you’re all right!—worth half a dozen younger men,” responded Bryce. “You’ll see a lot of your contemporaries out, Mr. Harker. Well—as you’ve treated me to a very fine cigar, now you’ll let me treat you to a drop of whisky?—they generally have something of pretty good quality in these old-fashioned establishments, I believe.”

      The two travellers sat talking until bedtime—but neither made any mention of the affair which had recently set all Wrychester agog with excitement. But Bryce was wondering all the time if his companion’s story of having a friend at Barthorpe was no more than an excuse, and when he was alone in his own bedroom and reflecting more seriously he came to the conclusion that old Harker was up to some game of his own in connection with the Paradise mystery.

      “The old chap was in the Library when Ambrose Campany said that there was a clue in that Barthorpe history,” he mused. “I saw him myself examining the book after the inquest. No, no, Mr. Harker!—the facts are too plain—the evidences too obvious. And yet—what interest has a retired old tradesman of Wrychester got in this affair? I’d give a good deal to know what Harker really is doing here—and who his Barthorpe friend is.”

      If Bryce had risen earlier next morning, and had taken the trouble to track old Harker’s movements, he would have learnt something that would have made him still more suspicious. But Bryce, seeing no reason for hurry, lay in bed till well past nine o’clock, and did not present himself in the coffee-room until nearly half-past ten. And at that hour Simpson Harker, who had breakfasted before nine, was in close consultation with his friend—that friend being none other than the local superintendent of police, who was confidentially closeted with the old man in his private house, whither Harker, by previous arrangement, had repaired as soon as his breakfast was over. Had Bryce been able to see through walls or hear through windows, he would have been surprised to find that the Harker of this consultation was not the quiet, easy-going, gossipy old gentleman of Wrychester, but an eminently practical and business-like man of affairs.

      “And now as regards this young fellow who’s staying across there at the Peacock,” he was saying in conclusion, at the very time that Bryce was leisurely munching his second mutton chop in the Peacock coffee-room, “he’s after something or other—his talk about coming here to see after a practice is all lies!—and you’ll keep an eye on him while he’s in your neighbourhood. Put your best plainclothes man on to him at once—he’ll easily know him from the description I gave you—and let him shadow him wherever he goes. And then let me know of his movement—he’s certainly on the track of something, and what he does may be useful to me—I can link it up with my own work. And as regards the other matter—keep me informed if you come on anything further. Now I’ll go out by your garden and down the back of the town to the station. Let me know, by the by, when this young man at the Peacock leaves here, and, if possible—and you can find out—for where.”

      Bryce was all unconscious that any one was interested in his movements when he strolled out into Barthorpe market-place just after eleven. He had asked a casual question of the waiter and found that the old gentleman had departed—he accordingly believed himself free from observation. And forthwith he set about his work of inquiry in his own fashion. He was not going to draw any attention to himself by asking questions of present-day inhabitants, whose curiosity might then be aroused; he knew better methods than that. Every town, said Bryce to himself, possesses public records—parish registers, burgess rolls, lists of voters; even small towns have directories which are more or less complete—he could search these for any mention or record of anybody or any family of the name of Braden. And he spent all that day in that search, inspecting numerous documents and registers and books, and when evening came he had a very complete acquaintance with the family nomenclature of Barthorpe, and he was prepared to bet odds against any one of the name of Braden having lived there during the past half-century. In all his searching he had not once come across the name.

      The man who had spent a very lazy day in keeping an eye on Bryce, as he visited the various public places whereat he made his researches, was also keeping an eye upon him next morning, when Bryce, breakfasting earlier than usual, prepared for a second day’s labours. He followed his quarry away from the little town: Bryce was walking out to Braden Medworth. In Bryce’s opinion, it was something of a wild-goose chase to go there, but the similarity in the name of the village and of the dead man at Wrychester might have its significance, and it was but a two miles’ stroll from Barthorpe. He found Braden Medworth a very small, quiet, and picturesque place, with an old church

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