would that make? He might have been for half a
dozen reasons."

Folliot looked at her out of his half-shut eyes.

"Some people would want to know why Ransford didn't tell that--at the
inquest," he answered. "That's all. When there's a bit of mystery, you
know--eh?"

He nodded--as if reassuringly--and went off to rejoin his gardener, and
Mary walked home with her roses, more thoughtful than ever. Mystery?--a
bit of mystery? There was a vast and heavy cloud of mystery, and she
knew she could have no peace until it was lifted.

CHAPTER XI. THE BACK ROOM

In the midst of all her perplexity at that moment, Mary Bewery was
certain of one fact about which she had no perplexity nor any doubt--it
would not be long before the rumours of which Bryce and Mr. Folliot had
spoken. Although she had only lived in Wrychester a comparatively short
time she had seen and learned enough of it to know that the place was a
hotbed of gossip. Once gossip was started there, it spread, widening in
circle after circle. And though Bryce was probably right when he said
that the person chiefly concerned was usually the last person to hear
what was being whispered, she knew well enough that sooner or later this
talk about Ransford would come to Ransford's own ears. But she had no
idea that it was to come so soon, nor from her own brother.

Lunch in the Ransford menage was an informal meal. At a quarter past one
every day, it was on the table--a cold lunch to which the three members
of the household helped themselves as they liked, independent of the
services of servants. Sometimes all three were there at the same moment;
sometimes Ransford was half an hour late; the one member who was always
there to the moment was Dick Bewery, who fortified himself sedulously
after his morning's school labours. On this particular day all three met
in the dining-room at once, and sat down together. And before Dick had
eaten many mouthfuls of a cold pie to which he had just liberally helped
himself he bent confidentially across the table towards his guardian.

"There's something I think you ought to be told about, sir," he remarked
with a side-glance at Mary. "Something I heard this morning at school.
You know, we've a lot of fellows--town boys--who talk."

"I daresay," responded Ransford dryly. "Following the example of their
mothers, no doubt. Well--what is it?"

He, too, glanced at Mary--and the girl had her work set to look
unconscious.

"It's th