“Well?” demanded Ransford, with no attempt to conceal his impatience. “And what then?”
“Collishaw was poisoned,” replied Bryce, watching Ransford with a closeness which Mary did not fail to observe. “H.C.N. No doubt at all about it.”
“Well—and what then?” asked Ransford, still more impatiently. “To be explicit—what's all this to do with me?”
“I came here to do you a service,” answered Bryce. “Whether you like to take it or not is your look-out. You may as well know it you're in danger. Collishaw is the man who hinted—as you heard yesterday in my rooms—that he could say something definite about the Braden affair—if he liked.”
“Well?” said Ransford.
“It's known—to the police—that you were at Collishaw's house early this morning,” said Bryce. “Mitchington knows it.”
Ransford laughed.
“Does Mitchington know that I overheard what he said to you, yesterday afternoon?” he inquired.
“No, he doesn't,” answered Bryce. “He couldn't possibly know unless I told him. I haven't told him—I'm not going to tell him. But—he's suspicious already.”
“Of me, of course,” suggested Ransford, with another laugh. He took a turn across the room and suddenly faced round on Bryce, who had remained standing near the door. “Do you really mean to tell me that Mitchington is such a fool as to believe that I would poison a poor working man—and in that clumsy fashion?” he burst out. “Of course you don't.”