“I accidentally came across the record of a marriage there in which I'm interested,” he said as he paid the search fees. “Celebrated by your predecessor, Mr. Gilwaters. I should be glad to know where Mr. Gilwaters is to be found. Do you happen to possess a clerical directory?”
The vicar produced a “Crockford”, and Bryce turned over its pages. Mr. Gilwaters, who from the account there given appeared to be an elderly man who had now retired, lived in London, in Bayswater, and Bryce made a note of his address and prepared to depart.
“Find any names that interested you?” asked the vicar as his caller left. “Anything noteworthy?”
“I found two or three names which interested me immensely,” answered Bryce from the foot of the vicarage steps. “They were well worth searching for.”
And without further explanation he marched off to Barthorpe duly followed by his shadow, who saw him safely into the Peacock an hour later—and, an hour after that, went to the police superintendent with his report.
“Gone, sir,” he said. “Left by the five-thirty express for London.”
CHAPTER IX. THE HOUSE OF HIS FRIEND
Bryce found himself at eleven o'clock next morning in a small book-lined parlour in a little house which stood in a quiet street in the neighbourhood of Westbourne Grove. 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?”