“Did he say how long he was going to stop here?” asked Bryce.
“Two or three days,” replied Harker.
“Did he mention Ransford?” inquired Bryce.
“Never!” said Harker.
“Did he make any reference to his wife and children?”
“Not the slightest!”
“Nor to the hint that his counsel threw out at the trial?”
“Never referred to that time except in the way I told you—that he hadn’t a penny of the money, himself and that he’d himself refunded it.”
Bryce meditated awhile. He was somewhat puzzled by certain points in the old detective’s story, and he saw now that there was much more mystery in the Braden affair than he had at first believed.
“Well,” he asked, after a while, “did you see him again?”
“Not alive!” replied Harker. “I saw him dead—and I held my tongue, and have held it. But—something happened that day. After I heard of the accident, I went into the Crown and Cushion tavern—the fact was, I went to get a taste of whisky, for the news had upset me. And in that long bar of theirs, I saw a man whom I knew—a man whom I knew, for a fact, to have been a fellow convict of Brake’s. Name of Glassdale—forgery. He got the same sentence that Brake got, about the same time, was in the same convict prison with Brake, and he and Brake would be released about the same date. There was no doubt about his identity—I never forget a face, even after thirty years I’d tell one. I saw him in that bar before he saw me, and I took a careful look at him. He, too, like Brake, was very well dressed, and very prosperous looking. He turned as he set down his glass, and caught sight of me—and he knew me. Mind you, he’d been through my hands in times past! And he instantly moved to a side-door and—vanished. I went out and looked up and down—he’d gone. I found out afterwards, by a little quiet inquiry, that he’d gone straight to the station, boarded the first train—there was one just giving out, to the junction—and left the city. But I can lay hands on him!”
“You’ve kept this quiet, too?” asked Bryce.
“Just so—I’ve my own game to play,” replied Harker. “This talk with you is part of it—you come in, now—I’ll tell you why, presently. But first, as you know, I went to Barthorpe. For, though Brake was dead, I felt I must go—for this reason. I was certain that he wanted that information for himself—the man in Australia was a fiction. I went, then—and learned nothing. Except that this Falkiner Wraye had been, as Brake said, a Barthorpe man, years ago. He’d left the town eighteen years since, and nobody knew anything about him. So I came home. And now then, doctor—your turn! What were you after, down there at Barthorpe?”
Bryce meditated his answer for a good five minutes. He had always intended to play the game off his own bat, but he had heard and seen enough since entering Harker’s little room to know that he was in company with an intellect which was keener and more subtle than his, and that it would be all to his advantage to go in with the man who had vast and deep experience. And so he made a clean breast of all he had done in the way of investigation, leaving his motive completely aside.
“You’ve got a theory, of course?” observed Harker, after listening quietly to all that Bryce could tell. “Naturally, you have! You couldn’t accumulate all that without getting one.”
“Well,” admitted Bryce, “honestly, I can’t say that I have. But I can see what theory there might be. This—that Ransford was the man who deceived Brake, that he ran away with Brake’s wife, that she’s dead, and that he’s brought up the children in ignorance of all that—and therefore—”
“And therefore,” interrupted Harker with a smile, “that when he and Brake met—as you seem to think they did—Ransford flung Brake through that open doorway; that Collishaw witnessed it, that Ransford’s found out about Collishaw, and that Collishaw has been poisoned by Ransford. Eh?”
“That’s a theory that seems to be supported by facts,” said Bryce.
“It’s a theory that would doubtless suit men like Mitchington,” said the old detective, with another smile. “But—not me, sir! Mind you, I don’t say there isn’t something in it—there’s doubtless a lot. But—the mystery’s a lot thicker than just that. And Brake didn’t come here to find Ransford. He came because of the secret in that scrap of paper. And as you’ve got it, doctor—out with it!”
Bryce saw no reason for concealment and producing the scrap of paper laid it on the table between himself and his host. Harker peered inquisitively at it.
“Latin!” he said. “You can read it, of course. What does it say?”
Bryce repeated a literal translation.
“I’ve found the place,” he added. “I found it this morning. Now, what do you suppose this means?”
Harker was looking hard at the two lines of writing.
“That’s a big question, doctor,” he answered. “But I’ll go so far as to say this—when we’ve found out what it does mean, we shall know a lot more than we know now!”
Chapter XV. The Double Offer
Bryce, who was deriving a considerable and peculiar pleasure from his secret interview with the old detective, smiled at Harker’s last remark.
“That’s a bit of a platitude, isn’t it?” he suggested. “Of course we shall know a lot more—when we do know a lot more!”
“I set store by platitudes, sir,” retorted Harker. “You can’t repeat an established platitude too often—it’s got the hallmark of good use on it. But now, till we do know more—you’ve no doubt been thinking a lot about this matter, Dr. Bryce—hasn’t it struck you that there’s one feature in connection with Brake, or Braden’s visit to Wrychester to which nobody’s given any particular attention up to now—so far as we know, at any rate?”
“What?” demanded Bryce.
“This,” replied Harker. “Why did he wish to see the Duke of Saxonsteade? He certainly did want to see him—and as soon as possible. You’ll remember that his Grace was questioned about that at the inquest and could give no explanation—he knew nothing of Brake, and couldn’t suggest any reason why Brake should wish to have an interview with him. But—I can!”
“You?” exclaimed Bryce.
“I,” answered Harker. “And it’s this—I spoke just now of that man Glassdale. Now you, of course; have no knowledge of him, and as you don’t keep yourself posted in criminal history, you don’t know what his offence was?”
“You said—forgery?” replied Bryce.
“Just so—forgery,” assented Harker. “And the signature that he forged was—the Duke of Saxonsteade’s! As a matter of fact, he was the Duke’s London estate agent. He got wrong, somehow, and he forged the Duke’s name to a cheque. Now, then, considering who Glassdale is, and that he was certainly a fellow-convict of Brake’s, and that I myself saw him here in Wrychester on the day of Brake’s death—what’s the conclusion to be drawn? That Brake wanted to see the Duke on some business of Glassdale’s! Without a doubt! It may have been that he and Glassdale wanted to visit