“Wouldn't that be better than knowing that people are saying things?” she asked. “As to that,” replied Ransford, “you can't prevent people saying things--especially in a town like this. If it hadn't been for the unfortunate fact that Braden came to the surgery door, nothing would have been said. But what of that?--I have known hundreds of men in my time--aye, and forgotten them! No!--I am not going to fall a victim to this device--it all springs out of curiosity. As to this last affair--it's all nonsense!” “But--if the man was really poisoned?” suggested Mary. “Let the police find the poisoner!” said Ransford, with a grim smile. “That's their job.” Mary said nothing for a moment, and Ransford moved restlessly about the room. “I don't trust that fellow Bryce,” he said suddenly. “He's up to something. I don't forget what he said when I bundled him out that morning.” “What?” she asked. “That he would be a bad enemy,” answered Ransford. “He's posing now as a friend--but a man's never to be so much suspected as when he comes doing what you may call unnecessary acts of friendship. I'd rather that anybody was mixed up in my affairs--your affairs--than Pemberton Bryce!” “So would I!” she said. “But--” She paused there a moment and then looked appealingly at Ransford. “I do wish you'd tell me--what you promised to tell me,” she said. “You know what I mean--about me and Dick. Somehow--I don't quite know how or why--I've an uneasy feeling that Bryce knows something, and that he's mixing it all up with--this! Why not tell me--please!” Ransford, who was still marching about the room, came to a halt, and leaning his hands on the table between them, looked earnestly at her. “Don't ask that--now!” he said. “I can't--yet. The fact is, I'm waiting for something--some particulars. As soon as I get them, I'll speak to you--and to Dick. In the meantime--don't ask me again--and don't be afraid. And as to this affair, leave it to me--and if you meet Bryce again, refuse to discuss any thing with him. Look here!--there's only one reason why he professes friendliness and a desire to save me annoyance. He thinks he can ingratiate himself with--you!” “Mistaken!” murmured Mary, shaking her head. “I don't trust him. And--less than ever because of yesterday. Would an honest man have done what he did? Let that police inspector talk freely, as he did, with people concealed behind a curtain? And--he laughed about it! I hated myself for being there--yet could we help it?” “I'm not going to hate myself on Pemberton Bryce's account,” said Ransford. “Let him play his game--that he has one, I'm certain.”