And just before Mitchington and the detective came up the path to his door, Bryce had put his notions into clear phraseology.  His aim was definite—­he wanted to get Ransford completely into his power, through suspicion of Ransford’s guilt in the affairs of Braden and Collishaw.  He wanted, at the same time, to have the means of exonerating him—­whether by fact or by craft—­so that, as an ultimate method of success for his own projects he would be able to go to Mary Bewery and say “Ransford’s very life is at my mercy:  if I keep silence, he’s lost:  if I speak, he’s saved:  it’s now for you to say whether I’m to speak or hold my tongue—­and you’re the price I want for my speaking to save him!” It was in accordance with his views of human nature that Mary Bewery would accede to his terms:  he had not known her and Ransford for nothing, and he was aware that she had a profound gratitude for her guardian, which might even be akin to a yet unawakened warmer feeling.  The probability was that she would willingly sacrifice herself to save Ransford—­and Bryce cared little by what means he won her, fair or foul, so long as he was successful.  So now, he said to himself, he must make a still more definite move against Ransford.  He must strengthen and deepen the suspicions which the police already had:  he must give them chapter and verse and supply them with information, and get Ransford into the tightest of corners, solely that, in order to win Mary Bewery, he might have the credit of pulling him out again.  That, he felt certain, he could do—­if he could make a net in which to enclose Ransford he could also invent a two-edged sword which would cut every mesh of that net into fragments.  That would be—­child’s play—­mere statecraft —­elementary diplomacy.  But first—­to get Ransford fairly bottled up—­that was the thing!  He determined to lose no more time—­and he was thinking of visiting Mitchington immediately after breakfast next morning when Mitchington knocked at his door.

Bryce was rarely taken back, and on seeing Mitchington and a companion, he forthwith invited them into his parlour, put out his whisky and cigars, and pressed both on them as if their late call were a matter of usual occurrence.  And when he had helped both to a drink, he took one himself, and tumbler in hand, dropped into his easy chair again.

“We saw your light, doctor—­so I took the liberty of dropping into tell you a bit of news,” observed the inspector.  “But I haven’t introduced my friend—­this is Detective-Sergeant Jettison, of the Yard—­we’ve got him down about this business —­must have help, you know.”

Bryce gave the detective a half-sharp, half-careless look and nodded.

“Mr. Jettison will have abundant opportunities for the exercise of his talents!” he observed in his best cynical manner.  “I dare say he’s found that out already.”

“Not an easy affair, sir, to be sure,” assented Jettison.  “Complicated!”