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.”
Glassdale, who had looked somewhat mystified at the beginning of this address, seemed to understand matters better by the end of it.
“Oh, well, of course, doctor,” he said, “if that’s it—but, of course—a word first!—these folk here at the inn don’t know who I am or that I’ve any connection with the Duke on that affair. I’m Mr. Gordon here—just staying for a bit.”
“That’s all right,” answered Bryce with a smile of understanding. “All this is between ourselves. I saw you with the Duke and the rest of them last night, and I recognized you just now. And all I want is a bit of talk about Braden. You knew him pretty well of late years?”
“Knew him for a good many years,” replied Glassdale. He looked narrowly at his visitor. “I suppose you know his story—and mine?” he asked. “Bygone affairs, eh?”
“Yes, yes!” answered Bryce reassuringly. “No need to go into that—that’s all done with.”
“Aye—well, we both put things right,” said Glassdale. “Made restitution—both of us, you understand. So that is done with? And you know, then, of course, who Braden really was?”
“John Brake, ex bank-manager,” answered Bryce promptly. “I know all about it. I’ve been deeply interested and concerned in his death. And I’ll tell you why. I want to marry his daughter.”
Glassdale turned and stared at his companion.
“His daughter!” he exclaimed. “Brake’s daughter! God bless my soul! I never knew he had a daughter!”
It was Bryce’s turn to stare now. He looked at Glassdale incredulously.
“Do you mean to tell me that you knew Brake all those years and that he never mentioned his children?” he exclaimed.
“Never a word of ‘em!” replied Glassdale. “Never knew he had any!”
“Did he never speak of his past?” asked Bryce.
“Not in that respect,” answered Glassdale. “I’d no idea that he was—or had been—a married man. He certainly never mentioned wife nor children to me, sir, and yet I knew Brake about as intimately as two men can know each other for some years before we came back to England.”
Bryce fell into one of his fits of musing. What could be the meaning of this extraordinary silence on Brake’s part? Was there still some hidden secret, some other mystery at which he had not yet guessed?
“Odd!” he remarked at last after a long pause during which Glassdale had watched him curiously. “But, did he ever speak to you of an old friend of his named Ransford—a doctor?”
“Never!” said Glassdale. “Never mentioned such a man!”
Bryce reflected again, and suddenly determined to be explicit.
“John Brake, the bank manager,” he said, “was married at a place called Braden Medworth, in Leicestershire, to a girl named Mary Bewery. He had two children, who would be, respectively, about four and one years of age when his—we’ll call it misfortune—happened. That’s a fact!”
“First I ever heard of it, then,” said Glassdale. “And that’s a fact, too!”
“He’d also a very close friend named Ransford—Mark Ransford,” continued Bryce. “This Ransford was best man at Brake’s wedding.”
“Never heard him speak of Ransford, nor of any wedding!” affirmed Glassdale. “All news to me, doctor.”
“This Ransford is now in practice in Wrychester,” said Bryce. “And he has two young people living with him as his wards—a girl of twenty, a boy of seventeen—who are, without doubt, John Brake’s children. It is the daughter that I want to marry.”
Glassdale shook his head as if in sheer perplexity.
“Well, all I can say is, you surprise me!” he remarked. “I’d no idea of any such thing.”
“Do you think Brake came to Wrychester because of that?” asked Bryce.
“How