“That's not quite so dead certain, Dick, as that I have no knowledge of his ever having been here,” said Ransford. “But who says he came here?”
“Mrs. Deramore,” replied Dick promptly. “She says she saw him go away from the house and across the Close, a little before ten. So Jim Deramore says, anyway—and he says his mother's eyes are as good as another's.”
“Doubtless!” assented Ransford. He looked at Mary again, and saw that she was keeping hers fixed on her plate. “Well,” he continued, “if it will give you any satisfaction, Dick, you can tell the gossips that Dr. Ransford never saw any man, Braden or anybody else, at his house that morning, and that he never exchanged a word with Braden. So much for that! But,” he added, “you needn't expect them to believe you. I know these people—if they've got an idea into their heads they'll ride it to death. Nevertheless, what I say is a fact.”
Dick presently went off—and once more Ransford looked at Mary. And this time, Mary had to meet her guardian's inquiring glance.
“Have you heard anything of this?” he asked.
“That there was a rumour—yes,” she replied without hesitation. “But—not until just now—this morning.”
“Who told you of it?” inquired Ransford.
Mary hesitated. Then she remembered that Mr. Folliot, at any rate, had not bound her to secrecy.
“Mr. Folliot,” she replied. “He called me into his garden, to give me those roses, and he mentioned that Mrs. Deramore had said these things to Mrs. Folliot, and as he seemed to think it highly probable that Mrs. Folliot would repeat them, he told me because he didn't want you to think that the rumour had originally arisen at his house.”
“Very good of him, I'm sure,” remarked Ransford dryly. “They all like to shift the blame from one to another! But,” he added, looking searchingly at her, “you don't know anything about—Braden's having come here?”