“You've heard?” remarked Mitchington. “Um! Good health, sir!--heard, of course, that--” “That Braden called on Dr. Ransford not long before the accident, or murder, or whatever it was, happened,” said Bryce. “That's it--eh?” “Something of that sort,” agreed Mitchington. “It's being said, anyway, that Braden was at Ransford's house, and presumably saw him, and that Ransford, accordingly, knows something about him which he hasn't told. Now--what do you know? Do you know if Ransford and Braden did meet that morning?” “Not at Ransford's house, anyway,” answered Bryce promptly. “I can prove that. But since this rumour has got out, I'll tell you what I do know, and what the truth is. Braden did come to Ransford's--not to the house, but to the surgery. He didn't see Ransford--Ransford had gone out, across the Close. Braden saw--me!” “Bless me!--I didn't know that,” remarked Mitchington. “You never mentioned it.” “You'll not wonder that I didn't,” said Bryce, laughing lightly, “when I tell you what the man wanted.” “What did he want, then?” asked Mitchington. “Merely to be told where the Cathedral Library was,” answered Bryce. Ransford, watching Mary Bewery, saw her cheeks flush, and knew that Bryce was cheerfully telling lies. But Mitchington evidently had no suspicion. “That all?” he asked. “Just a question?” “Just a question--that question,” replied Bryce. “I pointed out the Library--and he walked away. I never saw him again until I was fetched to him--dead. And I thought so little of the matter that--well, it never even occurred to me to mention it.” “Then--though he did call--he never saw Ransford?” asked the inspector. “I tell you Ransford was already gone out,” answered Bryce. “He saw no one but myself. Where Mrs. Deramore made her mistake--I happen to know, Mitchington, that she started this rumour--was in trying to make two and two into five. She saw this man crossing the Close, as if from Ransford's house and she at once imagined he'd seen and been talking with Ransford.” “Old fool!” said Mitchington. “Of course, that's how these tales get about. However, there's more than that in the air.” The two listeners behind the curtains glanced at each other. Ransford's glance showed that he was already chafing at the unpleasantness of his position--but Mary's only betokened apprehension. And suddenly, as if she feared that Ransford would throw the curtains aside and walk into the front room, she laid a hand on his arm and motioned him to be patient--and silent. “Oh?” said Bryce. “More in the air? About that business?” “Just so,” assented Mitchington. “To start with, that man Varner, the mason, has never ceased talking. They say he's always at it--to the effect that the verdict of the jury at the inquest was all wrong, and that his evidence was put clean aside. He persists that he did see--what he swore he saw.” “He'll persist in that to his dying day,” said Bryce carelessly. “If that's all there is--”