“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.”

“I never said I did,” answered Bryce.  “I’m only telling you what Mitchington thinks his grounds for suspecting.  He confided in me because—­well, it was I who found Collishaw.  Mitchington is in possession of a box of digestive pills which you evidently gave Collishaw.”

“Bah!” exclaimed Ransford.  “The man’s a fool!  Let him come and talk to me.”

“He won’t do that—­yet,” said Bryce.  “But—­I’m afraid he’ll bring all this out at the inquest.  The fact is—­he’s suspicious—­what with one thing or another—­about the former affair.  He thinks you concealed the truth—­whatever it may be—­as regards any knowledge of Braden which you may or mayn’t have.”

“I’ll tell you what it is!” said Ransford suddenly.  “It just comes to this—­I’m suspected of having had a hand—­the hand, if you like!—­in Braden’s death, and now of getting rid of Collishaw because Collishaw could prove that I had that hand.  That’s about it!”

“A clear way of putting it, certainly,” assented Bryce.  “But —­there’s a very clear way, too, of dissipating any such ideas.”

“What way?” demanded Ransford.

“If you do know anything about the Braden affair—­why not reveal it, and be done with the whole thing,” suggested Bryce.  “That would finish matters.”

Ransford took a long, silent look at his questioner.  And Bryce looked steadily back—­and Mary Bewery anxiously watched both men.

“That’s my business,” said Ransford at last.  “I’m neither to be coerced, bullied, or cajoled.  I’m obliged to you for giving me a hint of my—­danger, I suppose!  And—­I don’t propose to say any more.”

“Neither do I,” said Bryce.  “I only came to tell you.”

And therewith, having successfully done all that he wanted to do, he walked out of the room and the house, and Ransford, standing in the window, his hands thrust in his pockets, watched him go away across the Close.

“Guardian!” said Mary softly.

Ransford turned sharply.

“Wouldn’t it be best,” she continued, speaking nervously, “if —­if you do know anything about that unfortunate man—­if you told it?  Why have this suspicion fastening itself on you?  You!”

Ransford made an effort to calm himself.  He was furiously angry—­angry with Bryce, angry with Mitchington, angry with the cloud of foolishness and stupidity that seemed to be gathering.

“Why should I—­supposing that I do know something, which I don’t admit—­why should I allow myself to be coerced and frightened by these fools?” he asked.  “No man can prevent suspicion falling on him—­it’s my bad luck in this instance.  Why should I rush to the police-station and say, ’Here—­I’ll blurt out all I know—­everything!’ Why?”