ove. Over the mantelpiece, amongst other
odds and ends of pictures and photographs, hung a water-colour drawing
of Braden Medworth--and to him presently entered an old, silver-haired
clergyman whom he at once took to be Braden Medworth's former vicar,
and who glanced inquisitively at his visitor and then at the card which
Bryce had sent in with a request for an interview.

"Dr. Bryce?" he said inquiringly. "Dr. Pemberton Bryce?"

Bryce made his best bow and assumed his suavest and most ingratiating
manner.

"I hope I am not intruding on your time, Mr. Gilwaters?" he said. "The
fact is, I was referred to you, yesterday, by the present vicar of
Braden Medworth--both he, and the sexton there, Claybourne, whom you, of
course, remember, thought you would be able to give me some information
on a subject which is of great importance--to me."

"I don't know the present vicar," remarked Mr. Gilwaters, motioning
Bryce to a chair, and taking another close by. "Clayborne, of course,
I remember very well indeed--he must be getting an old man now--like
myself! What is it you want to know, now?"

"I shall have to take you into my confidence," replied Bryce, who had
carefully laid his plans and prepared his story, "and you, I am sure,
Mr. Gilwaters, will respect mine. I have for two years been in practice
at Wrychester, and have there made the acquaintance of a young lady whom
I earnestly desire to marry. She is the ward of the man to whom I have
been assistant. And I think you will begin to see why I have come to you
when I say that this young lady's name is--Mary Bewery."

The old clergyman started, and looked at his visitor with unusual
interest. He grasped the arm of his elbow chair and leaned forward.

"Mary Bewery!" he said in a low whisper. "What--what is the name of the
man who is her--guardian?"

"Dr. Mark Ransford," answered Bryce promptly.

The old man sat upright again, with a little toss of his head.

"Bless my soul!" he exclaimed. "Mark Ransford! Then--it must have been
as I feared--and suspected!"

Bryce made no remark. He knew at once that he had struck on something,
and it was his method to let people take their own time. Mr. Gilwaters
had already fallen into something closely resembling a reverie: Bryce
sat silently waiting and expectant. And at last the old man leaned
forward again, almost eagerly.

"What is it you want to know?" he asked, repeating his first question.
"Is--is there some--some mystery?"