“Oh, well,” he said. “Of course, it's—it's a pretty well understood thing, don't you know—between myself and Miss Bewery, you know—and of course, we couldn't have any suspicions attaching to her guardian, could we, now? Family interest, don't you know—Caesar's wife, and all that sort of thing, eh?”
“I see,” answered Bryce, quietly,—“sort of family arrangement. With Ransford's consent and knowledge, of course?”
“Ransford won't even be consulted,” said Sackville, airily. “My stepfather—sharp man, that, Bryce!—he'll do things in his own fashion. You look out for sudden revelations!”
“I will,” replied Bryce. “By-bye!”
He turned off to his rooms, wondering how much of truth there was in the fatuous Sackville's remarks. And—was there some mystery still undreamt of by himself and Harker? There might be—he was still under the influence of Ransford's indignant and dramatic assertion of his innocence. Would Ransford have allowed himself an outburst of that sort if he had not been, as he said, utterly ignorant of the immediate cause of Braden's death? Now Bryce, all through, was calculating, for his own purposes, on Ransford's share, full or partial, in that death—if Ransford really knew nothing whatever about it, where did his, Bryce's theory, come in—and how would his present machinations result? And, more—if Ransford's assertion were true, and if Varner's story of the hand, seen for an instant in the archway, were also true—and Varner was persisting in it—then, who was the man who flung Braden to his death that morning? He realized that, instead of straightening out, things were becoming more and more complicated.
But he realized something else. On the surface, there was a strong case of suspicion against Ransford. It had been suggested that very morning before a coroner and his jury; it would grow; the police were already permeated with suspicion and distrust. Would it not pay him, Bryce, to encourage, to help it? He had his own score to pay off against Ransford; he had his own schemes as regards Mary Bewery. Anyway, he was not going to share in any attempts to clear the man who had bundled him out of his house unceremoniously—he would bide his time. And in the meantime there were other things to be done—one of them that very night.
But before Bryce could engage in his secret task of excavating a small portion of Paradise in the rear of Richard Jenkins's tomb, another strange development came. As the dark fell over the old city that night and he was thinking of setting out on his mission, Mitchington came in, carrying two sheets of paper, obviously damp from the press, in his hand. He looked at Bryce with an expression of wonder.
“Here's a queer go!” he said. “I can't make this out at all! Look at these big handbills—but perhaps you've seen 'em? They're being posted all over the city—we've had a bundle of 'em thrown in on us.”
“I haven't been out since lunch,” remarked Bryce. “What are they?”
Mitchington spread out the two papers on the table, pointing from one to the other.