Mary Bewery, like Bryce, had been having a day of events. To begin with, Ransford had received a wire from London, first thing in the morning, which had made him run, breakfastless, to catch the next express. He had left Mary to make arrangements about his day's work, for he had not yet replaced Bryce, and she had been obliged to seek out another practitioner who could find time from his own duties to attend to Ransford's urgent patients. Then she had had to see callers who came to the surgery expecting to find Ransford there; and in the middle of a busy morning, Mr. Folliot had dropped in, to bring her a bunch of roses, and, once admitted, had shown unmistakable signs of a desire to gossip. “Ransford out?” he asked as he sat down in the dining-room. “Suppose he is, this time of day.” “He's away,” replied Mary. “He went to town by the first express, and I have had a lot of bother arranging about his patients.” “Did he hear about this discovery of the Saxonsteade jewels before he went?” asked Folliot. “Suppose he wouldn't though--wasn't known until the weekly paper came out this morning. Queer business! You've heard, of course?” “Dr. Short told me,” answered Mary. “I don't know any details.” Folliot looked meditatively at her a moment. “Got something to do with those other matters, you know,” he remarked. “I say! What's Ransford doing about all that?” “About all what, Mr. Folliot?” asked Mary, at once on her guard. “I don't understand you.” “You know--all that suspicion--and so on,” said Folliot. “Bad position for a professional man, you know--ought to clear himself. Anybody been applying for that reward Ransford offered?” “I don't know anything about it,” replied Mary. “Dr. Ransford is very well able to take care of himself, I think. Has anybody applied for yours?” Folliot rose from his chair again, as if he had changed his mind about lingering, and shook his head. “Can't say what my solicitors may or may not have heard--or done,” he answered. “But--queer business, you know--and ought to be settled. Bad for Ransford to have any sort of a cloud over him. Sorry to see it.” “Is that why you came forward with a reward?” asked Mary. But to this direct question Folliot made no answer. He muttered something about the advisability of somebody doing something and went away, to Mary's relief. She had no desire to discuss the Paradise mysteries with anybody, especially after Ransford's assurance of the previous evening. But in the middle of the afternoon in walked Mrs. Folliot, a rare caller, and before she had been closeted with Mary five minutes brought up the subject again. “I want to speak to you on a very serious matter, my dear Miss Bewery,” she said. “You must allow me to speak plainly on account of--of several things. My--my superiority in--in age, you know, and all that!”