ir recent schooldays, their youthful
experiences, games, pursuits--but none of what, under any circumstances,
could have been a very far-distant past. Bryce's quick and attentive
ears discovered things--for instance that for many years past Ransford
had been in the habit of spending his annual two months' holiday with
these two. Year after year--at any rate since the boy's tenth year--he
had taken them travelling; Bryce heard scraps of reminiscences of tours
in France, and in Switzerland, and in Ireland, and in Scotland--even as
far afield as the far north of Norway. It was easy to see that both boy
and girl had a mighty veneration for Ransford; just as easy to see that
Ransford took infinite pains to make life something more than happy and
comfortable for both. And Bryce, who was one of those men who
firmly believe that no man ever does anything for nothing and that
self-interest is the mainspring of Life, asked himself over and over
again the question which agitated the ladies of the Close: Who are
these two, and what is the bond between them and this sort of
fairy-godfather-guardian?

And now, as he put away the scrap of paper in a safely-locked desk,
Bryce asked himself another question: Had the events of that morning
anything to do with the mystery which hung around Dr. Ransford's wards?
If it had, then all the more reason why he should solve it. For Bryce
had made up his mind that, by hook or by crook, he would marry Mary
Bewery, and he was only too eager to lay hands on anything that would
help him to achieve that ambition. If he could only get Ransford into
his power--if he could get Mary Bewery herself into his power--well and
good. Once he had got her, he would be good enough to her--in his way.

Having nothing to do, Bryce went out after a while and strolled round to
the Wrychester Club--an exclusive institution, the members of which
were drawn from the leisured, the professional, the clerical, and the
military circles of the old city. And there, as he expected, he found
small groups discussing the morning's tragedy, and he joined one of
them, in which was Sackville Bonham, his presumptive rival, who was
busily telling three or four other young men what his stepfather, Mr.
Folliot, had to say about the event.

"My stepfather says--and I tell you he saw the man," said Sackville, who
was noted in Wrychester circles as a loquacious and forward youth; "he
says that whatever happened must have happened as soon a