“Very good of you all, I’m sure,” assented Bryce.  “Very thoughtful and kindly.”

“Oh, well!” said Sackville, who was incapable of perceiving a sneer or of knowing when older men were laughing at him.  “It’s one of those things that one’s got to do—­under the circumstances.  Of course, Miss Bewery isn’t Dr. Ransford’s daughter, but she’s his ward, and we can’t allow suspicion to rest on her guardian.  You leave it to me, my boy, and you’ll see how things will be cleared!”

“Doing a bit underground, eh?” asked Bryce.

“Wait a bit!” answered Sackville with a knowing wink.  “It’s the least expected that happens—­what?”

Bryce replied that Sackville was no doubt right, and began to talk of other matters.  He hung about the club-house until past three o’clock, and then, being well acquainted with Mary Bewery’s movements from long observation of them, set out to walk down towards Wrychester, leaving his bicycle behind him.  If he did not meet Mary on the way, he meant to go to the house.  Ransford would be out on his afternoon round of calls; Dick Bewery would be at school; he would find Mary alone.  And it was necessary that he should see her alone, and at once, for since morning an entirely new view of affairs had come to him, based on added knowledge, and he now saw a chance which he had never seen before.  True, he said to himself, as he walked across the links and over the country which lay between their edge and Wrychester, he had not, even now, the accurate knowledge as to the actual murderer of either Braden or Collishaw that he would have liked, but he knew something that would enable him to ask Mary Bewery point-blank whether he was to be friend or enemy.  And he was still considering the best way of putting his case to her when, having failed to meet her on the way, he at last turned into the Close, and as he approached Ransford’s house, saw Mrs. Folliot leaving it.

Mary Bewery, like Bryce, had been having a day of events.  To begin with, Ransford had received a wire from London, first thing in the morning, which had made him run, breakfastless, to catch the next express.  He had left Mary to make arrangements about his day’s work, for he had not yet replaced Bryce, and she had been obliged to seek out another practitioner who could find time from his own duties to attend to Ransford’s urgent patients.  Then she had had to see callers who came to the surgery expecting to find Ransford there; and in the middle of a busy morning, Mr. Folliot had dropped in, to bring her a bunch of roses, and, once admitted, had shown unmistakable signs of a desire to gossip.

“Ransford out?” he asked as he sat down in the dining-room.  “Suppose he is, this time of day.”

“He’s away,” replied Mary.  “He went to town by the first express, and I have had a lot of bother arranging about his patients.”

“Did he hear about this discovery of the Saxonsteade jewels before he went?” asked Folliot.  “Suppose he wouldn’t though —­wasn’t known until the weekly paper came out this morning.  Queer business!  You’ve heard, of course?”