“Mrs. Deramore--at the next house,” answered Bryce. “She happened to be looking out of an upstairs window. She saw him go away and cross the Close.” “Did she tell you that?” demanded Mary, who knew Mrs. Deramore for a gossip. “Between ourselves,” said Bryce, “she did not! She told Mrs. Folliot--Mrs. Folliot told me.” “So--it is talked about!” exclaimed Mary. “I said so,” assented Bryce. “You know what Mrs. Folliot's tongue is.” “Then Dr. Ransford will get to hear of it,” said Mary. “He will be the last person to get to hear of it,” affirmed Bryce. “These things are talked of, hole-and-corner fashion, a long time before they reach the ears of the person chiefly concerned.” Mary hesitated a moment before she asked her next question. “Why have you told me all this?” she demanded at last. “Because I didn't want you to be suddenly surprised,” answered Bryce. “This--whatever it is--may come to a sudden head--of an unpleasant sort. These rumours spread--and the police are still keen about finding out things concerning this dead man. If they once get it into their heads that Dr. Ransford knew him--” Mary laid her hand on the gate between them--and Bryce, who had done all he wished to do at that time, instantly opened it, and she passed through. “I am much obliged to you,” she said. “I don't know what it all means--but it is Dr. Ransford's affair--if there is any affair, which I doubt. Will you let me go now, please?” Bryce stood aside and lifted his hat, and Mary, with no more than a nod, walked on towards the golf club-house across the Common, while Bryce turned off to the town, highly elated with his morning's work. He had sown the seeds of uneasiness and suspicion broadcast--some of them, he knew, would mature.