ndon, for one-and-six. I
think," he added musingly, "that what attracted him in it was the
old calf binding and the steel frontispiece--I'm sure he'd no great
knowledge of antiquities."

Mitchington laid the book down, and Bryce picked it up, examined the
title-page, and made a mental note of the fact that Barthorpe was a
market-town in the Midlands. And it was on the tip of his tongue to
say that if the dead man had no particular interest in antiquities and
archaeology, it was somewhat strange that he should have bought a book
which was mainly antiquarian, and that it might be that he had so
bought it because of a connection between Barthorpe and himself. But he
remembered that it was his own policy to keep pertinent facts for his
own private consideration, so he said nothing. And Mitchington presently
remarking that there was no more to be done there, and ascertaining from
Mr. Dellingham that it was his intention to remain in Wrychester for
at any rate a few days, they went downstairs again, and Bryce and the
inspector crossed over to the police-station.

The news had spread through the heart of the city, and at the
police-station doors a crowd had gathered. Just inside two or three
principal citizens were talking to the Superintendent--amongst them was
Mr. Stephen Folliot, the stepfather of young Bonham--a big, heavy-faced
man who had been a resident in the Close for some years, was known to be
of great wealth, and had a reputation as a grower of rare roses. He was
telling the Superintendent something--and the Superintendent beckoned to
Mitchington.

"Mr. Folliot says he saw this gentleman in the Cathedral," he said.
"Can't have been so very long before the accident happened, Mr. Folliot,
from what you say."

"As near as I can reckon, it would be five minutes to ten," answered Mr.
Folliot. "I put it at that because I'd gone in for the morning service,
which is at ten. I saw him go up the inside stair to the clerestory
gallery--he was looking about him. Five minutes to ten--and it must have
happened immediately afterwards."

Bryce heard this and turned away, making a calculation for himself. It
had been on the stroke of ten when he saw Ransford hurrying out of the
west porch. There was a stairway from the gallery down to that west
porch. What, then, was the inference? But for the moment he drew
none--instead, he went home to his rooms in Friary Lane, and shutting
himself up, drew from his pocket the scrap of pap