“It's a good job I've retired!” he said, almost sadly. “I'm getting too old for my trade, doctor. Once upon a time I should have been fit to kick myself for not having twigged the meaning of this business sooner than I have done!”
“Have you twigged it?” demanded Bryce, almost scornfully. “You're a good deal cleverer than I am if you have. For hang me if I know what it means!”
“I do!” answered Harker. He opened a drawer in his desk and drew out a scrap-book, filled, as Bryce saw a moment later, with cuttings from newspapers, all duly arranged and indexed. The old man glanced at the index, turned to a certain page, and put his finger on an entry. “There you are!” he said. “And that's only one—there are several more. They'll tell you in detail what I can tell you in a few words and what I ought to have remembered. It's fifteen years since the famous robbery at Saxonsteade which has never been accounted for—robbery of the Duchess's diamonds—one of the cleverest burglaries ever known, doctor. They were got one night after a grand ball there; no arrest was ever made, they were never traced. And I'll lay all I'm worth to a penny-piece that the Duke and those men are gladding their eyes with the sight of them just now!—in Mitchington's office—and that the information that they were where they've just been found was given to the Duke by—Glassdale!”
“Glassdale! That man!” exclaimed Bryce, who was puzzling his brain over possible developments.
“That man, sir!” repeated Harker. “That's why Glassdale was in Wrychester the day of Braden's death. And that's why Braden, or Brake, came to Wrychester at all. He and Glassdale, of course, had somehow come into possession of the secret, and no doubt meant to tell the Duke together, and get the reward—there was 95,000 offered! And as Brake's dead, Glassdale's spoken, but”—here the old man paused and gave his companion a shrewd look—“the question still remains: How did Brake come to his end?”
CHAPTER XVII. TO BE SHADOWED
Dick Bewery burst in upon his sister and Ransford with a budget of news such as it rarely fell to the lot of romance-loving seventeen to tell. Secret and mysterious digging up of grave-yards by night—discovery of sealed packets, the contents of which might only be guessed at—the whole thing observed by hidden spectators—these were things he had read of in fiction, but had never expected to have the luck to see in real life. And being gifted with some powers of imagination and of narrative, he made the most of his story to a pair of highly attentive listeners, each of whom had his, and her, own reasons for particular attention.
“More mystery!” remarked Mary when Dick's story had come to an end. “What a pity they didn't open the parcel!” She looked at Ransford, who was evidently in deep thought. “I suppose it will all come out?” she suggested.
“Sure to!” he answered, and turned to Dick. “You say Bryce fetched old Harker—after you and Bryce had watched these operations a bit? Did he say why he fetched him?”