LITMIR.BIZ

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to look at the registers for the year 1891. He verified his copy and turned to the vicar.

      “I accidentally came across the record of a marriage there in which I’m interested,” he said as he paid the search fees. “Celebrated by your predecessor, Mr. Gilwaters. I should be glad to know where Mr. Gilwaters is to be found. Do you happen to possess a clerical directory?”

      The vicar produced a “Crockford”, and Bryce turned over its pages. Mr. Gilwaters, who from the account there given appeared to be an elderly man who had now retired, lived in London, in Bayswater, and Bryce made a note of his address and prepared to depart.

      “Find any names that interested you?” asked the vicar as his caller left. “Anything noteworthy?”

      “I found two or three names which interested me immensely,” answered Bryce from the foot of the vicarage steps. “They were well worth searching for.”

      And without further explanation he marched off to Barthorpe duly followed by his shadow, who saw him safely into the Peacock an hour later—and, an hour after that, went to the police superintendent with his report.

      “Gone, sir,” he said. “Left by the five-thirty express for London.”

Chapter IX. The House of his Friend

       Table of Contents

      Bryce found himself at eleven o’clock next morning in a small book-lined parlour in a little house which stood in a quiet street in the neighbourhood of Westbourne Grove. Over the mantelpiece, amongst other odds and ends of pictures and photographs, hung a water-colour drawing of Braden Medworth—and to him presently entered an old, silver-haired clergyman whom he at once took to be Braden Medworth’s former vicar, and who glanced inquisitively at his visitor and then at the card which Bryce had sent in with a request for an interview.

      “Dr. Bryce?” he said inquiringly. “Dr. Pemberton Bryce?”

      Bryce made his best bow and assumed his suavest and most ingratiating manner.

      “I hope I am not intruding on your time, Mr. Gilwaters?” he said. “The fact is, I was referred to you, yesterday, by the present vicar of Braden Medworth—both he, and the sexton there, Claybourne, whom you, of course, remember, thought you would be able to give me some information on a subject which is of great importance—to me.”

      “I don’t know the present vicar,” remarked Mr. Gilwaters, motioning Bryce to a chair, and taking another close by. “Clayborne, of course, I remember very well indeed—he must be getting an old man now—like myself! What is it you want to know, now?”

      “I shall have to take you into my confidence,” replied Bryce, who had carefully laid his plans and prepared his story, “and you, I am sure, Mr. Gilwaters, will respect mine. I have for two years been in practice at Wrychester, and have there made the acquaintance of a young lady whom I earnestly desire to marry. She is the ward of the man to whom I have been assistant. And I think you will begin to see why I have come to you when I say that this young lady’s name is—Mary Bewery.”

      The old clergyman started, and looked at his visitor with unusual interest. He grasped the arm of his elbow chair and leaned forward.

      “Mary Bewery!” he said in a low whisper. “What—what is the name of the man who is her—guardian?”

      “Dr. Mark Ransford,” answered Bryce promptly.

      The old man sat upright again, with a little toss of his head.

      “Bless my soul!” he exclaimed. “Mark Ransford! Then—it must have been as I feared—and suspected!”

      Bryce made no remark. He knew at once that he had struck on something, and it was his method to let people take their own time. Mr. Gilwaters had already fallen into something closely resembling a reverie: Bryce sat silently waiting and expectant. And at last the old man leaned forward again, almost eagerly.

      “What is it you want to know?” he asked, repeating his first question. “Is—is there some—some mystery?”

      “Yes!” replied Bryce. “A mystery that I want to solve, sir. And I dare say that you can help me, if you’ll be so good. I am convinced—in fact, I know!—that this young lady is in ignorance of her parentage, that Ransford is keeping some fact, some truth back from her—and I want to find things out. By the merest chance—accident, in fact—I discovered yesterday at Braden Medworth that some twenty-two years ago you married one Mary Bewery, who, I learnt there, was your governess, to a John Brake, and that Mark Ransford was John 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

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