for Ransford to the police, he could sweep them up and tear them away with a sentence of added knowledge—­if Mary Bewery made it worth his while.  But first—­before coming to the critical point—­there was yet certain information which he desired to get, and he felt sure of getting it if he could find Glassdale.  For Glassdale, according to all accounts, had known Braden intimately of late years, and was most likely in possession of facts about him—­and Bryce had full confidence in himself as an interviewer of other men and a supreme belief that he could wheedle a secret out of anybody with whom he could procure an hour’s quiet conversation.

As luck would have it, Bryce had no need to make a call upon the approachable and friendly Duke.  Outside the little village at Saxonsteade, on the edge of the deep woods which fringed the ducal park, stood an old wayside inn, a relic of the coaching days, which bore on its sign the ducal arms.  Into its old stone hall marched Bryce to refresh himself after his ride, and as he stood at the bow-windowed bar, he glanced into the garden beyond and there saw, comfortably smoking his pipe and reading the newspaper, the very man he was looking for.

Bryce had no spice of bashfulness, no want of confidence anywhere in his nature; he determined to attack Glassdale there and then.  But he took a good look at his man before going out into the garden to him.  A plain and ordinary sort of fellow, he thought; rather over middle age, with a tinge of grey in his hair and moustache; prosperous looking and well-dressed, and at that moment of the appearance of what he was probably taken for by the inn people—­a tourist.  Whether he was the sort who would be communicative or not, Bryce could not tell from outward signs, but he was going to try, and he presently found his card-case, took out a card, and strolling down the garden to the shady spot in which Glassdale sat, assumed his politest and suavest manner and presented himself.

“Allow me, sir,” he said, carefully abstaining from any mention of names.  “May I have the pleasure of a few minutes’ conversation with you?”

Glassdale cast a swift glance of surprise, not unmingled with suspicion, at the intruder—­the sort of glance that a man used to watchfulness would throw at anybody, thought Bryce.  But his face cleared as he read the card, though it was still doubtful as he lifted it again.

“You’ve the advantage of me, sir,” he said.  “Dr. Bryce, I see.  But—­”

Bryce smiled and dropped into a garden chair at Glassdale’s side.

“You needn’t be afraid of talking to me,” he answered.  “I’m well known in Wrychester.  The Duke,” he went on, nodding his head in the direction of the great house which lay behind the woods at the foot of the garden, “knows me well enough—­in fact, I was on my way to see his Grace now, to ask him if he could tell me where you could be found.  The fact is, I’m aware of what happened last night—­the jewel affair, you know —­Mitchington told me—­and of your friendship with Braden, and I want to ask you a question or two about Braden.”