“It seems to me,” he said, “that there is no great reason for privacy. If rumours are flying about in Wrychester, there is an end of privacy. Dick tells me they are saying at the school that it is known that Braden called on me at my house shortly before he was found dead. I know nothing whatever of any such call! But—I left you in my surgery that morning. Do you know if he came there?”
“Yes!” answered Bryce. “He did come. Soon after you'd gone out.”
“Why did you keep that secret?” demanded Ransford. “You could have told it to the police—or to the Coroner—or to me. Why didn't you?”
Before Bryce could answer, all three heard a sharp click of the front garden gate, and looking round, saw Mitchington coming up the walk.
“Here's one of the police, now,” said Bryce calmly. “Probably come to extract information. I would much rather he didn't see you here—but I'd also like you to hear what I shall say to him. Step inside there,” he continued, drawing aside the curtains which shut off the back room. “Don't stick at trifles!—you don't know what may be afoot.”
He almost forced them away, drew the curtains again, and hurrying to the front door, returned almost immediately with Mitchington.
“Hope I'm not disturbing you, doctor,” said the inspector, as Bryce brought him in and again closed the door. “Not? All right, then—I came round to ask you a question. There's a queer rumour getting out in the town, about that affair last week. Seems to have sprung from some of those old dowagers in the Close.”
“Of course!” said Bryce. He was mixing a whisky-and-soda for his caller, and his laugh mingled with the splash of the siphon. “Of course! I've heard it.”
“You've heard?” remarked Mitchington. “Um! Good health, sir!—heard, of course, that—”
“That Braden called on Dr. Ransford not long before the accident, or murder, or whatever it was, happened,” said Bryce. “That's it—eh?”