“My theory--and I'll lay anything it's the correct one!--is this,” replied Jettison. “Brake came to Wrychester with his secret. That secret wasn't confined to him and Glassdale--either he let it out to somebody, or it was known to somebody. I understand from Inspector Mitchington here that on the evening of his arrival Brake was away from the Mitre Hotel for two hours. During that time, he was somewhere--with whom? Probably with somebody who got the secret out of him, or to whom he communicated it. For, think!--according to Glassdale, who, 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.