"What is it?--what are you doing there?" he demanded almost
fiercely. "What do you mean by coming in like that?"

Bryce affected to have seen nothing.

"I came to fetch you," he answered. "There's been an accident
in Paradise--man fallen from that door at the head of St.
Wrytha's Stair. I wish you'd come--but I may as well tell you
that he's past help--dead!"

"Dead! A man?" exclaimed Ransford. "What man? A workman?"

Bryce had already made up his mind about telling Ransford of
the stranger's call at the surgery. He would say nothing--at
that time at any rate. It was improbable that any one but
himself knew of the call; the side entrance to the surgery was
screened from the Close by a shrubbery; it was very unlikely
that any passer-by had seen the man call or go away. No--he
would keep his knowledge secret until it could be made better
use of.

"Not a workman--not a townsman--a stranger," he answered.
"Looks like a well-to-do tourist. A slightly-built, elderly
man--grey-haired."

Ransford, who had turned to his desk to master himself, looked
round with a sudden sharp glance--and for the moment Bryce was
taken aback. For he had condemned Ransford--and yet that
glance was one of apparently genuine surprise, a glance which