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Updated: June 1, 2025
Plainly marked in the dust of the roadway were the tracks of a vehicle that I instinctively knew to be a cab. It had veered right in towards the kerb, and a moment's study convinced me that it had stopped at Bryce's house.
And now if you'll excuse me," I ran on before she had time to answer, "I'll just drop in with this parcel." Then without more ado I turned on my heel and knocked at Bryce's door. "I've got those maps you wanted," I remarked as Bryce opened the door, "and I hope I haven't kept you waiting too long." "You haven't," he said with a smile. "As a matter-of-fact I've been otherwise occupied.
I needn't have been so cocksure about it, for as will shortly be related that was just exactly what I did do. I made an excellent dinner. Bryce's kitchen and the meat-safes attached proved on investigation to contain enough food for a family.
One of the latter held his hand to a wounded shoulder, and swore at the chauffeur every time the car jolted and sent a quiver of pain through the wound. In course of time Bryce's car came to a little hamlet on the Geelong to Colac road a hamlet that must be nameless in this story.
I had been thinking things over all day, and it had just occurred to me that, seeing we had heard nothing of them since Bryce's death, it was quite possible that they were even now following up the false clue that he had laid for them, and which one of them had got away with the night of the burglary. If that were so, why had they come back and killed Bryce?
He nodded at a box of cigars which lay open on a table at Bryce's elbow as he began to mix a couple of drinks. "Help yourself," he said. "Good stuff, those." Not until he had given Bryce a drink, and had carried his own glass to another easy chair did Folliot refer to any reason for Bryce's visit. But once settled down, he looked at him speculatively.
"I'm not going to hate myself on Pemberton Bryce's account," said Ransford. "Let him play his game that he has one, I'm certain." Bryce had gone away to continue his game or another line of it. The Collishaw matter had not made him forget the Richard Jenkins tomb, and now, after leaving Ransford's house, he crossed the Close to Paradise with the object of doing a little more investigation.
Bryce's niece, isn't she?" he asked. "That's right," I said, and Moira nodded. "Now let me see," he ran on, ticking off the points on his fingers, "you are an old friend of the family's. That's correct, isn't it?" "That's so," I agreed. "Anything more?" "I don't quite understand you," I said, with the faintest doubt at the back of my mind.
This arrangement had but one drawback, although this did not present itself until after Bryce's return to Sequoia and his assumption of the direction of the Cardigan destinies. For Mrs. Tully had a failing common to many of her sex: she possessed for other people's business an interest absolutely incapable of satisfaction and she was, in addition, garrulous beyond belief.
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.
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