had met--most likely in the precincts of the Cathedral. Ransford, who
knew all the quiet corners of the old place, had in all probability
induced Brake to walk up into the gallery with him, had noticed the
open doorway, had thrown Brake through it. All the facts pointed to
that conclusion--it was a theory which, so far as Bryce could see, was
perfect. It ought to be enough--proved--to put Ransford in a criminal
dock. Bryce resolved it in his own mind over and over again as he sped
home to Wrychester--he pictured the police listening greedily to all
that he could tell them if he liked. There was only one factor in the
whole sum of the affair which seemed against him--the advertisement in
the Times. If Brake desired to find Ransford in order to be revenged on
him, why did he insert that advertisement, as if he were longing to meet
a cherished friend again? But Bryce gaily surmounted that obstacle--full
of shifts and subtleties himself, he was ever ready to credit others
with trading in them, and he put the advertisement down as a clever ruse
to attract, not Ransford, but some person who could give information
about Ransford. Whatever its exact meaning might have been, its
existence made no difference to Bryce's firm opinion that it was Mark
Ransford who flung John Brake down St. Wrytha's Stair and killed him. He
was as sure of that as he was certain that Braden was Brake. And he was
not going to tell the police of his discoveries--he was not going to
tell anybody. The one thing that concerned him was--how best to make
use of his knowledge with a view to bringing about a marriage between
himself and Mark Ransford's ward. He had set his mind on that for twelve
months past, and he was not a man to be baulked of his purpose. By
fair means, or foul--he himself ignored the last word and would have
substituted the term skilful for it--Pemberton Bryce meant to have Mary
Bewery.

Mary Bewery herself had no thought of Bryce in her head when, the
morning after that worthy's return to Wrychester, she set out, alone,
for the Wrychester Golf Club. It was her habit to go there almost every
day, and Bryce was well acquainted with her movements and knew precisely
where to waylay her. And empty of Bryce though her mind was, she was not
surprised when, at a lonely place on Wrychester Common, Bryce turned the
corner of a spinny and met her face to face.

Mary would have passed on with no more than a silent recognition--she
had made up her m