Mary Bewery played no golf that morning. In fact, she only went on to the club-house to rid herself of Bryce, and presently she returned home, thinking. And indeed, she said to herself, she had abundant food for thought. Naturally candid and honest, she did not at that moment doubt Bryce's good faith; much as she disliked him in most ways she knew that he had certain commendable qualities, and she was inclined to believe him when he said that he had kept silence in order to ward off consequences which might indirectly be unpleasant for her. But of him and his news she thought little--what occupied her mind was the possible connection between the stranger who had come so suddenly and disappeared so suddenly--and for ever!--and Mark Ransford. Was it possible--really possible--that there had been some meeting between them in or about the Cathedral precincts that morning? She knew, after a moment's reflection, that it was very possible--why not? And from that her thoughts followed a natural trend--was the mystery surrounding this man connected in any way with the mystery about herself and her brother?--that mystery of which (as it seemed to her) Ransford was so shy of speaking. And again--and for the hundredth time--she asked herself why he was so reticent, so evidently full of dislike of the subject, why he could not tell her and Dick whatever there was to tell, once for all? She had to pass the Folliots' house in the far corner of the Close on her way home--a fine old mansion set in well-wooded grounds, enclosed by a high wall of old red brick. A door in that wall stood open, and inside it, talking to one of his gardeners, was Mr. Folliot--the vistas behind him were gay with flowers and rich with the roses which he passed all his days in cultivating. He caught sight of Mary as she passed the open doorway and called her back. “Come in and have a look at some new roses I've got,” he said. “Beauties! I'll give you a handful to carry home.” Mary rather liked Mr. Folliot. He was a big, half-asleep sort of man, who had few words and could talk about little else than his hobby. But he was a passionate lover of flowers and plants, and had a positive genius for rose-culture, and was at all times highly delighted to take flower-lovers round his garden. She turned at once and walked in, and Folliot led her away down the scented paths. “It's an experiment I've been trying,” he said, leading her up to a cluster of blooms of a colour and size which she had never seen before. “What do you think of the results?” “Magnificent!” exclaimed Mary. “I never saw anything so fine!” “No!” agreed Folliot, with a quiet chuckle. “Nor anybody else--because there's no such rose in England. I shall have to go to some of these learned parsons in the Close to invent me a Latin name for this--it's the result of careful experiments in grafting--took me three years to get at it. And see how it blooms,--scores on one standard.”