Bryce looked carefully and narrowly around him. Now that Varner had gone away, there was not a human being in sight, nor anywhere near, so far as he knew. On one side of him and the dead man rose the grey walls of nave and transept; on the other, the cypresses and yews rising amongst the old tombs and monuments. Assuring himself that no one was near, no eye watching, he slipped his hand into the inner breast pocket of the dead man's smart morning coat. Such a man must carry papers--papers would reveal something. And Bryce wanted to know anything--anything that would give information and let him into whatever secret there might be between this unlucky stranger and Ransford. But the breast pocket was empty; there was no pocket-book there; there were no papers there. Nor were there any papers elsewhere in the other pockets which he hastily searched: there was not even a card with a name on it. But he found a purse, full of money--banknotes, gold, silver--and in one of its compartments a scrap of paper folded curiously, after the fashion of the cocked-hat missives of another age in which envelopes had not been invented. Bryce hurriedly unfolded this, and after one glance at its contents, made haste to secrete it in his own pocket. He had only just done this and put back the purse when he heard Varner's voice, and a second later the voice of Inspector Mitchington, a well-known police official. And at that Bryce sprang to his feet, and when the mason and his companions emerged from the bushes was standing looking thoughtfully at the dead man. He turned to Mitchington with a shake of the head. “Dead!” he said in a hushed voice. “Died as we got to him. Broken--all to pieces, I should say--neck and spine certainly. I suppose Varner's told you what he saw.” Mitchington, a sharp-eyed, dark-complexioned man, quick of movement, nodded, and after one glance at the body, looked up at the open doorway high above them. “That the door?” he asked, turning to Varner. “And--it was open?” “It's always open,” answered Varner. “Least-ways, it's been open, like that, all this spring, to my knowledge.” “What is there behind it?” inquired Mitchington. “Sort of gallery, that runs all round the nave,” replied Varner. “Clerestory gallery--that's what it is. People can go up there and walk around--lots of 'em do--tourists, you know. There's two or three ways up to it--staircases in the turrets.” Mitchington turned to one of the two constables who had followed him. “Let Varner show you the way up there,” he said. “Go quietly--don't make any fuss--the morning service is just beginning. Say nothing to anybody--just take a quiet look around, along that gallery, especially near the door there--and come back here.” He looked down at the dead man again as the mason and the constable went away. “A stranger, I should think, doctor--tourist, most likely. But--thrown down! That man Varner is positive. That looks like foul play.”