seemed almost impossible! But a sudden thought struck him:
supposing two men, wishing to talk in privacy unobserved, had
gone up into the clerestory of the Cathedral--as they easily
could, by more than one door, by more than one stair--and
supposing they had quarrelled, and one of them had flung or
pushed the other through the door above--what then? And on
the heels of that thought hurried another--this man, now lying
dead, had come to the surgery, seeking Ransford, and had
subsequently gone away, presumably in search of him, and Bryce
himself had just seen Ransford, obviously agitated and pale of
cheek, leaving the west porch; what did it all mean? what was
the apparently obvious inference to be drawn? Here was the
stranger dead--and Varner was ready to swear that he had seen
him thrown, flung violently, through the door forty feet
above. That was--murder! Then--who was the murderer?

Bryce looked carefully and narrowly around him. Now that
Varner had gone away, there was not a human being in sight,
nor anywhere near, so far as he knew. On one side of him and
the dead man rose the grey walls of nave and transept; on the
other, the cypresses and yews rising amongst the old tombs and
monuments. Assuring himself that no one was near, no eye
watching, he slipped his hand into the inner breast pocket of
the dead man's smart morning coat. Such a man must carry
papers--papers would reveal something. And Bryce wanted to
know anything--anything that would give information and let
him into whatever secret there might be between this unlucky
stranger and Ransford.

But the breast pocket was empty; there was no pocket-book