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If you went through Paradise, you'd very likely meet him coming back the Deanery is the big house in the far corner yonder." The stranger followed Bryce's outstretched finger. "Paradise?" he said, wonderingly. "What's that?" Bryce pointed to a long stretch of grey wall which projected from the south wall of the Cathedral into the Close.
The soft glow of the candles in the old-fashioned silver candlesticks upon the table was reflected in the polished walls of the room-walls formed of panels of the most exquisitely patterned redwood burl Bryce Cardigan had ever seen. Also the panels were unusually large. Shirley Sumner's alert glance followed Bryce's as it swept around the room.
Bryce's account of his finding of Collishaw amounted to no more than a bare recital of facts. Nor was much time spent in questioning the two doctors who had conducted the post-mortem examination. Their evidence, terse and particular, referred solely to the cause of death.
"That's the best argument I can offer to refute yours." At the same reception I had an interesting talk with James Bryce. He had recently written his American Commonwealth, and I had just read it. It was, therefore, the first subject I introduced in our conversation. Mr. Bryce's comment amused me.
"I have, Dad." Bryce's great hand closed over the back of his father's neck; he shook the old man with mock ferocity. "Stubborn old lumberjack!" he chided. John Cardigan shook with an inward chuckle, for the loving abuse his boy had formed a habit of heaping on him never failed to thrill him.
"D d if I like this, Chivers! It's your affair; but it's mighty low-down work for a man!" "You might have made it easier if you hadn't knocked up Bryce's gun. That would have settled it, though no one guessed that the cur was her husband," said Chivers hotly. "If you want it settled THAT WAY, there's still time," returned the other with a slight sneer.
Experience had impressed upon him the fact that in a rough-and-tumble battle nobody is quite so thoroughly at home as a lumberjack; once in a clinch with such a man, even a champion gladiator of the prize ring may well feel apprehensive of the outcome. Wednesday evening at five o'clock Mr. Sinclair, the manager, came into Bryce's office with a handful of folded papers.
Mary Bewery would not come up to the links now before afternoon; he, Bryce, would lunch there and then go towards Wrychester to meet her by the path across the fields on which he had waylaid her after his visit to Leicestershire. And meanwhile he would inveigle Sackville Bonham into conversation. Sackville fell readily into Bryce's trap.
He had made haste to buy a copy of the Times and to cut out the advertisement. It had never been in doubt a moment, in Bryce's mind, that Sticker was J. Braden himself. Who, now, was Marco? Who a million to one on it! but Ransford, whose Christian name was Mark? He reckoned up his chances of getting at the truth of the affair anew that night.
The inspector was doubtless right in saying that Collishaw had been done to death by somebody who wanted to silence him but who could that somebody be? Bryce's thoughts immediately turned to the fact that Ransford had overheard all that Mitchington had said, in that very room in which he, Bryce, was then lunching Ransford!
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