“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.”