"None! But then," replied the Duke, "there might be many reasons--unknown to me, but at which I can make a guess. If he was an antiquary, there are lots of old things at Saxonsteade which he might wish to see. Or he might be a lover of pictures--our collection is a bit famous, you know. Perhaps he was a bookman--we have some rare editions.

I could go on multiplying reasons--but to what purpose?"

"The fact is, your Grace doesn't know him and knows nothing about him,"

observed the Coroner.

"Just so--nothing!" agreed the Duke and stepped down again.

It was at this stage that the Coroner sent the jurymen away in charge of his officer to make a careful personal inspection of the gallery in the clerestory. And while they were gone there was some commotion caused in the court by the entrance of a police official who conducted to the Coroner a middle-aged, well-dressed man whom Bryce at once set down as a London commercial magnate of some quality. Between the new arrival and the Coroner an interchange of remarks was at once made, shared in presently by some of the officials at the table. And when the jury came back the stranger was at once ushered into the witness-box, and the Coroner turned to the jury and the court.

"We are unexpectedly able to get some evidence of ident.i.ty, gentlemen,"

he observed. "The gentleman who has just stepped into the witness-box is Mr. Alexander Chilstone, manager of the London & Colonies Bank, in Threadneedle Street. Mr. Chilstone saw particulars of this matter in the newspapers this morning, and he at once set off to Wrychester to tell us what he knows of the dead man. We are very much obliged to Mr.

Chilstone--and when he has been sworn he will perhaps kindly tell us what he can."

In the midst of the murmur of sensation which ran round the court, Bryce indulged himself with a covert look at Ransford who was sitting opposite to him, beyond the table in the centre of the room. He saw at once that Ransford, however strenuously he might be fighting to keep his face under control, was most certainly agitated by the Coroner's announcement. His cheeks had paled, his eyes were a little dilated, his lips parted as he stared at the bank-manager--altogether, it was more than mere curiosity that was indicated on his features. And Bryce, satisfied and secretly elated, turned to hear what Mr. Alexander Chilstone had to tell.

That was not much--but it was of considerable importance. Only two days before, said Mr. Chilstone--that was, on the day previous to his death--Mr. John Braden had called at the London & Colonies Bank, of which he, Mr. Chilstone, was manager, and introducing himself as having just arrived in England from Australia, where, he said, he had been living for some years, had asked to be allowed to open an account. He produced some references from agents of the London & Colonies Bank, in Melbourne, which were highly satisfactory; the account being opened, he paid into it a sum of ten thousand pounds in a draft at sight drawn by one of those agents. He drew nothing against this, remarking casually that he had plenty of money in his pocket for the present: he did not even take the cheque-book which was offered him, saying that he would call for it later.

"He did not give us any address in London, nor in England," continued the witness. "He told me that he had only arrived at Charing Cross that very morning, having travelled from Paris during the night. He said that he should settle down for a time at some residential hotel in London, and in the meantime he had one or two calls, or visits, to make in the country: when he returned from them, he said, he would call on me again.

He gave me very little information about himself: it was not necessary, for his references from our agents in Australia were quite satisfactory.

But he did mention that he had been out there for some years, and had speculated in landed property--he also said that he was now going to settle in England for good. That," concluded Mr. Chilstone, "is all I can tell of my own knowledge. But," he added, drawing a newspaper from his pocket, "here is an advertis.e.m.e.nt which I noticed in this morning's Times as I came down. You will observe," he said, as he pa.s.sed it to the Coroner, "that it has certainly been inserted by our unfortunate customer."

The Coroner glanced at a marked pa.s.sage in the personal column of the Times, and read it aloud:

"The advertis.e.m.e.nt is as follows," he announced. "'If this meets the eye of old friend Marco, he will learn that Sticker wishes to see him again. Write J. Braden, c/o London & Colonies Bank, Threadneedle Street, London.'"

Bryce was keeping a quiet eye on Ransford. Was he mistaken in believing that he saw him start; that he saw his cheek flush as he heard the advertis.e.m.e.nt read out? He believed he was not mistaken--but if he was right, Ransford the next instant regained full control of himself and made no sign. And Bryce turned again to Coroner and witness.

But the witness had no more to say--except to suggest that the bank's Melbourne agents should be cabled to for information, since it was unlikely that much more could be got in England. And with that the middle stage of the proceedings ended--and the last one came, watched by Bryce with increasing anxiety. For it was soon evident, from certain remarks made by the Coroner, that the theory which Archdale had put forward at the club in Bryce's hearing the previous day had gained favour with the authorities, and that the visit of the jurymen to the scene of the disaster had been intended by the Coroner to predispose them in behalf of it. And now Archdale himself, as representing the architects who held a retaining fee in connection with the Cathedral, was called to give his opinion--and he gave it in almost the same words which Bryce had heard him use twenty-four hours previously. After him came the master-mason, expressing the same decided conviction--that the real truth was that the pavement of the gallery had at that particular place become so smooth, and was inclined towards the open doorway at such a sharp angle, that the unfortunate man had lost his footing on it, and before he could recover it had been shot out of the arch and over the broken head of St. Wrytha's Stair. And though, at a juryman's wish, Varner was recalled, and stuck stoutly to his original story of having seen a hand which, he protested, was certainly not that of the dead man, it soon became plain that the jury shared the Coroner's belief that Varner in his fright and excitement had been mistaken, and no one was surprised when the foreman, after a very brief consultation with his fellows, announced a verdict of death by misadventure.

"So the city's cleared of the stain of murder!" said a man who sat next to Bryce. "That's a good job, anyway! Nasty thing, doctor, to think of a murder being committed in a cathedral. There'd be a question of sacrilege, of course--and all sorts of complications."

Bryce made no answer. He was watching Ransford, who was talking to the Coroner. And he was not mistaken now--Ransford's face bore all the signs of infinite relief. From--what? Bryce turned, to leave the stuffy, rapidly-emptying court. And as he pa.s.sed the centre table he saw old Simpson Harker, who, after sitting in attentive silence for three hours had come up to it, picked up the "History of Barthorpe" which had been found in Braden's suit-case and was inquisitively peering at its t.i.tle-page.

CHAPTER VII. THE DOUBLE TRAIL

Pemberton Bryce was not the only person in Wrychester who was watching Ransford with keen attention during these events. Mary Bewery, a young woman of more than usual powers of observation and penetration, had been quick to see that her guardian's distress over the affair in Paradise was something out of the common. She knew Ransford for an exceedingly tender-hearted man, with a considerable spice of sentiment in his composition: he was noted for his more than professional interest in the poorer sort of his patients and had gained a deserved reputation in the town for his care of them. But it was somewhat surprising, even to Mary, that he should be so much upset by the death of a total stranger as to lose his appet.i.te, and, for at any rate a couple of days, be so restless that his conduct could not fail to be noticed by herself and her brother. His remarks on the tragedy were conventional enough--a most distressing affair--a sad fate for the poor fellow--most unexplainable and mysterious, and so on--but his concern obviously went beyond that.

He was ill at ease when she questioned him about the facts; almost irritable when d.i.c.k Bewery, schoolboy-like, asked him concerning professional details; she was sure, from the lines about his eyes and a worn look on his face, that he had pa.s.sed a restless night when he came down to breakfast on the morning of the inquest. But when he returned from the inquest she noticed a change--it was evident, to her ready wits, that Ransford had experienced a great relief. He spoke of relief, indeed, that night at dinner, observing that the verdict which the jury had returned had cleared the air of a foul suspicion; it would have been no pleasant matter, he said, if Wrychester Cathedral had gained an unenviable notoriety as the scene of a murder.

"All the same," remarked d.i.c.k, who knew all the talk of the town, "Varner persists in sticking to what he's said all along. Varner says--said this afternoon, after the inquest was over--that he's absolutely certain of what he saw, and that he not only saw a hand in a white cuff and black coat sleeve, but that he saw the sun gleam for a second on the links in the cuff, as if they were gold or diamonds.

Pretty stiff evidence that, sir, isn't it?"

"In the state of mind in which Varner was at that moment," replied Ransford, "he wouldn't be very well able to decide definitely on what he really did see. His vision would retain confused images. Probably he saw the dead man's hand--he was wearing a black coat and white linen. The verdict was a most sensible one."

No more was said after that, and that evening Ransford was almost himself again. But not quite himself. Mary caught him looking very grave, in evident abstraction, more than once; more than once she heard him sigh heavily. But he said no more of the matter until two days later, when, at breakfast, he announced his intention of attending John Braden's funeral, which was to take place that morning.

"I've ordered the brougham for eleven," he said, "and I've arranged with Dr. Nicholson to attend to any urgent call that comes in between that and noon--so, if there is any such call, you can telephone to him. A few of us are going to attend this poor man's funeral--it would be too bad to allow a stranger to go to his grave unattended, especially after such a fate. There'll be somebody representing the Dean and Chapter, and three or four princ.i.p.al townsmen, so he'll not be quite neglected.

And"--here he hesitated and looked a little nervously at Mary, to whom he was telling all this, d.i.c.k having departed for school--"there's a little matter I wish you'd attend to--you'll do it better than I should.

The man seems to have been friendless; here, at any rate--no relations have come forward, in spite of the publicity--so--don't you think it would be rather--considerate, eh?--to put a wreath, or a cross, or something of that sort on his grave--just to show--you know?"

"Very kind of you to think of it," said Mary. "What do you wish me to do?"

"If you'd go to Gardales', the florists, and order--something fitting, you know," replied Ransford, "and afterwards--later in the day--take it to St. Wigbert's Churchyard--he's to be buried there--take it--if you don't mind--yourself, you know."

"Certainly," answered Mary. "I'll see that it's done."

She would do anything that seemed good to Ransford--but all the same she wondered at this somewhat unusual show of interest in a total stranger.

She put it down at last to Ransford's undoubted sentimentality--the man's sad fate had impressed him. And that afternoon the s.e.xton at St.

Wigbert's pointed out the new grave to Miss Bewery and Mr. Sackville Bonham, one carrying a wreath and the other a large bunch of lilies.

Sackville, chancing to encounter Mary at the florist's, whither he had repaired to execute a commission for his mother, had heard her business, and had been so struck by the notion--or by a desire to ingratiate himself with Miss Bewery--that he had immediately bought flowers himself--to be put down to her account--and insisted on accompanying Mary to the churchyard.

Bryce heard of this tribute to John Braden next day--from Mrs. Folliot, Sackville Bonham's mother, a large lady who dominated certain circles of Wrychester society in several senses. Mrs. Folliot was one of those women who have been gifted by nature with capacity--she was conspicuous in many ways. Her voice was masculine; she stood nearly six feet in her stoutly-soled shoes; her breadth corresponded to her height; her eyes were piercing, her nose Roman; there was not a curate in Wrychester who was not under her thumb, and if the Dean himself saw her coming, he turned hastily into the nearest shop, sweating with fear lest she should follow him. Endued with riches and fortified by a.s.surance, Mrs. Folliot was the presiding spirit in many movements of charity and benevolence; there were people in Wrychester who were unkind enough to say--behind her back--that she was as meddlesome as she was most undoubtedly autocratic, but, as one of her staunchest clerical defenders once pointed out, these grumblers were what might be contemptuously dismissed as five-shilling subscribers. Mrs. Folliot, in her way, was undoubtedly a power--and for reasons of his own Pemberton Bryce, whenever he met her--which was fairly often--was invariably suave and polite.

"Most mysterious thing, this, Dr. Bryce," remarked Mrs. Folliot in her deepest tones, encountering Bryce, the day after the funeral, at the corner of a back street down which she was about to sail on one of her charitable missions, to the terror of any of the women who happened to be caught gossiping. "What, now, should make Dr. Ransford cause flowers to be laid on the grave of a total stranger? A sentimental feeling?

Fiddle-de-dee! There must be some reason."

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, Mrs. Folliot,"

answered Bryce, whose ears had already lengthened. "Has Dr. Ransford been laying flowers on a grave?--I didn't know of it. My engagement with Dr. Ransford terminated two days ago--so I've seen nothing of him."

"My son, Mr. Sackville Bonham," said Mrs. Folliot, "tells me that yesterday Miss Bewery came into Gardales' and spent a sovereign--actually a sovereign!--on a wreath, which, she told Sackville, she was about to carry, at her guardian's desire, to this strange man's grave. Sackville, who is a warm-hearted boy, was touched--he, too, bought flowers and accompanied Miss Bewery. Most extraordinary! A perfect stranger! Dear me--why, n.o.body knows who the man was!"

"Except his bank-manager," remarked Bryce, "who says he's holding ten thousand pounds of his."

"That," admitted Mrs. Folliot gravely, "is certainly a consideration.

But then, who knows?--the money may have been stolen. Now, really, did you ever hear of a quite respectable man who hadn't even a visiting-card or a letter upon him? And from Australia, too!--where all the people that are wanted run away to! I have actually been tempted to wonder, Dr.

Bryce, if Dr. Ransford knew this man--in years gone by? He might have, you know, he might have--certainly! And that, of course, would explain the flowers."

"There is a great deal in the matter that requires explanation, Mrs.

Folliot," said Bryce. He was wondering if it would be wise to instil some minute drop of poison into the lady's mind, there to increase in potency and in due course to spread. "I--of course, I may have been mistaken--I certainly thought Dr. Ransford seemed unusually agitated by this affair--it appeared to upset him greatly."

"So I have heard--from others who were at the inquest," responded Mrs.

Folliot. "In my opinion our Coroner--a worthy man otherwise--is not sufficiently particular. I said to Mr. Folliot this morning, on reading the newspaper, that in my view that inquest should have been adjourned for further particulars. Now I know of one particular that was never mentioned at the inquest!"

"Oh?" said Bryce. "And what?"

"Mrs. Deramore, who lives, as you know, next to Dr. Ransford," replied Mrs. Folliot, "told me this morning that on the morning of the accident, happening to look out of one of her upper windows, she saw a man whom, from the description given in the newspapers, was, Mrs. Deramore feels a.s.sured, was the mysterious stranger, crossing the Close towards the Cathedral in, Mrs. Deramore is positive, a dead straight line from Dr. Ransford's garden--as if he had been there. Dr. Bryce!--a direct question should have been asked of Dr. Ransford--had he ever seen that man before?"

"Ah, but you see, Mrs. Folliot, the Coroner didn't know what Mrs.

Deramore saw, so he couldn't ask such a question, nor could any one else," remarked Bryce, who was wondering how long Mrs. Deramore remained at her upper window and if she saw him follow Braden. "But there are circ.u.mstances, no doubt, which ought to be inquired into. And it's certainly very curious that Dr. Ransford should send a wreath to the grave of--a stranger."

He went away convinced that Mrs. Folliot's inquisitiveness had been aroused, and that her tongue would not be idle: Mrs. Folliot, left to herself, had the gift of creating an atmosphere, and if she once got it into her head that there was some mysterious connection between Dr.

Ransford and the dead man, she would never rest until she had spread her suspicions. But as for Bryce himself, he wanted more than suspicions--he wanted facts, particulars, data. And once more he began to go over the sum of evidence which had accrued.

The question of the sc.r.a.p of paper found in Braden's purse, and of the exact whereabouts of Richard Jenkins's grave in Paradise, he left for the time being. What was now interesting him chiefly was the advertis.e.m.e.nt in the Times to which the bank-manager from London had drawn attention. He had made haste to buy a copy of the Times and to cut out the advertis.e.m.e.nt. There it was--old friend Marco was wanted by (presumably old friend) Sticker, and whoever Sticker might be he could certainly be found under care of J. Braden. It had never been in doubt a moment, in Bryce's mind, that Sticker was J. Braden himself. Who, now, was Marco? Who--a million to one on it!--but Ransford, whose Christian name was Mark?