“Why have you told me all this?” she demanded at last.

“Because I didn’t want you to be suddenly surprised,” answered Bryce.  “This—­whatever it is—­may come to a sudden head—­of an unpleasant sort.  These rumours spread—­and the police are still keen about finding out things concerning this dead man.  If they once get it into their heads that Dr. Ransford knew him—­”

Mary laid her hand on the gate between them—­and Bryce, who had done all he wished to do at that time, instantly opened it, and she passed through.

“I am much obliged to you,” she said.  “I don’t know what it all means—­but it is Dr. Ransford’s affair—­if there is any affair, which I doubt.  Will you let me go now, please?”

Bryce stood aside and lifted his hat, and Mary, with no more than a nod, walked on towards the golf club-house across the Common, while Bryce turned off to the town, highly elated with his morning’s work.  He had sown the seeds of uneasiness and suspicion broadcast—­some of them, he knew, would mature.

Mary Bewery played no golf that morning.  In fact, she only went on to the club-house to rid herself of Bryce, and presently she returned home, thinking.  And indeed, she said to herself, she had abundant food for thought.  Naturally candid and honest, she did not at that moment doubt Bryce’s good faith; much as she disliked him in most ways she knew that he had certain commendable qualities, and she was inclined to believe him when he said that he had kept silence in order to ward off consequences which might indirectly be unpleasant for her.  But of him and his news she thought little—­what occupied her mind was the possible connection between the stranger who had come so suddenly and disappeared so suddenly—­and for ever!—­and Mark Ransford.  Was it possible—­really possible—­that there had been some meeting between them in or about the Cathedral precincts that morning?  She knew, after a moment’s reflection, that it was very possible—­why not?  And from that her thoughts followed a natural trend—­was the mystery surrounding this man connected in any way with the mystery about herself and her brother? —­that mystery of which (as it seemed to her) Ransford was so shy of speaking.  And again—­and for the hundredth time—­she asked herself why he was so reticent, so evidently full of dislike of the subject, why he could not tell her and Dick whatever there was to tell, once for all?

She had to pass the Folliots’ house in the far corner of the Close on her way home—­a fine old mansion set in well-wooded grounds, enclosed by a high wall of old red brick.  A door in that wall stood open, and inside it, talking to one of his gardeners, was Mr. Folliot—­the vistas behind him were gay with flowers and rich with the roses which he passed all his days in cultivating.  He caught sight of Mary as she passed the open doorway and called her back.

“Come in and have a look at some new roses I’ve got,” he said.  “Beauties!  I’ll give you a handful to carry home.”