Bryce had used eyes and ears in relation to the two young people.  He had been with Ransford a year when they arrived; admitted freely to their company, he had soon discovered that whatever relationship existed between them and Ransford, they had none with anybody else—­that they knew of.  No letters came for them from uncles, aunts, cousins, grandfathers, grandmothers.  They appeared to have no memories or reminiscences of relatives, nor of father or mother; there was a curious atmosphere of isolation about them.  They had plenty of talk about what might be called their present—­their recent schooldays, their youthful experiences, games, pursuits—­but none of what, under any circumstances, could have been a very far-distant past.  Bryce’s quick and attentive ears discovered things—­for instance that for many years past Ransford had been in the habit of spending his annual two months’ holiday with these two.  Year after year—­at any rate since the boy’s tenth year—­he had taken them travelling; Bryce heard scraps of reminiscences of tours in France, and in Switzerland, and in Ireland, and in Scotland—­even as far afield as the far north of Norway.  It was easy to see that both boy and girl had a mighty veneration for Ransford; just as easy to see that Ransford took infinite pains to make life something more than happy and comfortable for both.  And Bryce, who was one of those men who firmly believe that no man ever does anything for nothing and that self-interest is the mainspring of Life, asked himself over and over again the question which agitated the ladies of the Close:  Who are these two, and what is the bond between them and this sort of fairy-godfather-guardian?

And now, as he put away the scrap of paper in a safely-locked desk, Bryce asked himself another question:  Had the events of that morning anything to do with the mystery which hung around Dr. Ransford’s wards?  If it had, then all the more reason why he should solve it.  For Bryce had made up his mind that, by hook or by crook, he would marry Mary Bewery, and he was only too eager to lay hands on anything that would help him to achieve that ambition.  If he could only get Ransford into his power—­if he could get Mary Bewery herself into his power—­well and good.  Once he had got her, he would be good enough to her—­in his way.

Having nothing to do, Bryce went out after a while and strolled round to the Wrychester Club—­an exclusive institution, the members of which were drawn from the leisured, the professional, the clerical, and the military circles of the old city.  And there, as he expected, he found small groups discussing the morning’s tragedy, and he joined one of them, in which was Sackville Bonham, his presumptive rival, who was busily telling three or four other young men what his stepfather, Mr. Folliot, had to say about the event.