om nobody
seems to know anything, had nothing on him but a history of Barthorpe.
Odd! And yet, though you'd think he'd some connection with the place, or
had known it, they say nobody at Barthorpe knows anything about anybody
of his name."

"Well, I don't know that there is anything so very odd about it, after
all," replied the other man. "He may have picked up that old book for
one of many reasons that could be suggested. No--I read all that case
in the papers, and I wasn't so much impressed by the old book feature
of it. But I'll tell you what--there was a thing struck me. I know this
Barthorpe district--we shall be in it in a few minutes--I've been a good
deal over it. This strange man's name was given in the papers as John
Braden. Now close to Barthorpe--a mile or two outside it, there's a
village of that name--Braden Medworth. That's a curious coincidence--and
taken in conjunction with the man's possession of an old book about
Barthorpe--why, perhaps there's something in it--possibly more than I
thought for at first."

"Well--it's an odd case--a very odd case," said the first speaker.
"And--as there's ten thousand pounds in question, more will be heard of
it. Somebody'll be after that, you may be sure!"

Bryce left the train at Barthorpe thanking his good luck--the man in
the far corner had unwittingly given him a hint. He would pay a visit to
Braden Medworth--the coincidence was too striking to be neglected. But
first Barthorpe itself--a quaint old-world little market-town, in
which some of even the principal houses still wore roofs of thatch, and
wherein the old custom of ringing the curfew bell was kept up. He found
an old-fashioned hotel in the marketplace, under the shadow of the
parish church, and in its oak-panelled dining-room, hung about with
portraits of masters of foxhounds and queer old prints of sporting and
coaching days, he dined comfortably and well.

It was too late to attempt any investigations that evening, and
when Bryce had finished his leisurely dinner he strolled into the
smoking-room--an even older and quainter apartment than that which
he had just left. It was one of those rooms only found in very old
houses--a room of nooks and corners, with a great open fireplace, and
old furniture and old pictures and curiosities--the sort of place to
which the old-fashioned tradesmen of the small provincial towns still
resort of an evening rather than patronize the modern political clubs.
There wer