Bryce, ever since his coming to Wrychester, had occupied rooms in an old house in Friary Lane, at the back of the Close. He was comfortably lodged. Downstairs he had a double sitting-room, extending from the front to the back of the house; his front window looked out on one garden, his back window on another. He had just finished lunch in the front part of his room, and was looking out of his window, wondering what to do with himself that afternoon, when he saw Ransford and Mary Bewery approaching. He guessed the reason of their visit at once, and went straight to the front door to meet them, and without a word motioned them to follow him into his own quarters. It was characteristic of him that he took the first word--before either of his visitors could speak. “I know why you've come,” he said, as he closed the door and glanced at Mary. “You either want my permission that you should tell Dr. Ransford what I told you this morning, or, you want me to tell him myself. Am I right?” “I should be glad if you would tell him,” replied Mary. “The rumour you spoke of has reached him--he ought to know what you can tell. I have respected your confidence, so far.” The two men looked at each other. And this time it was Ransford who spoke first. “It seems to me,” he said, “that there is no great reason for privacy. If rumours are flying about in Wrychester, there is an end of privacy. Dick tells me they are saying at the school that it is known that Braden called on me at my house shortly before he was found dead. I know nothing whatever of any such call! But--I left you in my surgery that morning. Do you know if he came there?” “Yes!” answered Bryce. “He did come. Soon after you'd gone out.” “Why did you keep that secret?” demanded Ransford. “You could have told it to the police--or to the Coroner--or to me. Why didn't you?” Before Bryce could answer, all three heard a sharp click of the front garden gate, and looking round, saw Mitchington coming up the walk. “Here's one of the police, now,” said Bryce calmly. “Probably come to extract information. I would much rather he didn't see you here--but I'd also like you to hear what I shall say to him. Step inside there,” he continued, drawing aside the curtains which shut off the back room. “Don't stick at trifles!--you don't know what may be afoot.” He almost forced them away, drew the curtains again, and hurrying to the front door, returned almost immediately with Mitchington. “Hope I'm not disturbing you, doctor,” said the inspector, as Bryce brought him in and again closed the door. “Not? All right, then--I came round to ask you a question. There's a queer rumour getting out in the town, about that affair last week. Seems to have sprung from some of those old dowagers in the Close.” “Of course!” said Bryce. He was mixing a whisky-and-soda for his caller, and his laugh mingled with the splash of the siphon. “Of course! I've heard it.”