the possible
connection between the stranger who had come so suddenly and disappeared
so suddenly--and for ever!--and Mark Ransford. Was it possible--really
possible--that there had been some meeting between them in or about the
Cathedral precincts that morning? She knew, after a moment's reflection,
that it was very possible--why not? And from that her thoughts followed
a natural trend--was the mystery surrounding this man connected in any
way with the mystery about herself and her brother?--that mystery
of which (as it seemed to her) Ransford was so shy of speaking. And
again--and for the hundredth time--she asked herself why he was so
reticent, so evidently full of dislike of the subject, why he could not
tell her and Dick whatever there was to tell, once for all?

She had to pass the Folliots' house in the far corner of the Close on
her way home--a fine old mansion set in well-wooded grounds, enclosed by
a high wall of old red brick. A door in that wall stood open, and inside
it, talking to one of his gardeners, was Mr. Folliot--the vistas behind
him were gay with flowers and rich with the roses which he passed all
his days in cultivating. He caught sight of Mary as she passed the open
doorway and called her back.

"Come in and have a look at some new roses I've got," he said.
"Beauties! I'll give you a handful to carry home."

Mary rather liked Mr. Folliot. He was a big, half-asleep sort of man,
who had few words and could talk about little else than his hobby. But
he was a passionate lover of flowers and plants, and had a positive
genius for rose-culture, and was at all times highly delighted to take
flower-lovers round his garden. She turned at once and walked in, and
Folliot led her away down the scented paths.

"It's an experiment I've been trying," he said, leading her up to a
cluster of blooms of a colour and size which she had never seen before.
"What do you think of the results?"

"Magnificent!" exclaimed Mary. "I never saw anything so fine!"

"No!" agreed Folliot, with a quiet chuckle. "Nor anybody else--because
there's no such rose in England. I shall have to go to some of these
learned parsons in the Close to invent me a Latin name for this--it's
the result of careful experiments in grafting--took me three years to
get at it. And see how it blooms,--scores on one standard."

He pulled out a knife and began to select a handful of the finest
blooms, which he presently pressed into Mary's hand.

"