ran across the lawns in the direction of the house which he
had left not twenty minutes before. He had but one idea as he
ran--he wanted to see Ransford face to face with the dead man
--wanted to watch him, to observe him, to see how he looked,
how he behaved. Then he, Bryce, would know--something.

But he was to know something before that. He opened the door
of the surgery suddenly, but with his usual quietness of
touch. And on the threshold he paused. Ransford, the very
picture of despair, stood just within, his face convulsed,
beating one hand upon the other.




CHAPTER IV

THE ROOM AT THE MITRE


In the few seconds which elapsed before Ransford recognized
Bryce's presence, Bryce took a careful, if swift, observation
of his late employer. That Ransford was visibly upset by
something was plain enough to see; his face was still pale, he
was muttering to himself, one clenched fist was pounding the
open palm of the other hand--altogether, he looked like a man
who is suddenly confronted with some fearful difficulty. And
when Bryce, having looked long enough to satisfy his wishes,
coughed gently, he started in such a fashion as to suggest
that his nerves had become unstrung.