north of Norway. It was easy to see that both boy and girl
had a mighty veneration for Ransford; just as easy to see that
Ransford took infinite pains to make life something more than
happy and comfortable for both. And Bryce, who was one of
those men who firmly believe that no man ever does anything
for nothing and that self-interest is the mainspring of Life,
asked himself over and over again the question which agitated
the ladies of the Close: Who are these two, and what is the
bond between them and this sort of fairy-godfather-guardian?

And now, as he put away the scrap of paper in a safely-locked
desk, Bryce asked himself another question: Had the events of
that morning anything to do with the mystery which hung around
Dr. Ransford's wards? If it had, then all the more reason why
he should solve it. For Bryce had made up his mind that, by
hook or by crook, he would marry Mary Bewery, and he was only
too eager to lay hands on anything that would help him to
achieve that ambition. If he could only get Ransford into
his power--if he could get Mary Bewery herself into his
power--well and good. Once he had got her, he would be good
enough to her--in his way.

Having nothing to do, Bryce went out after a while and
strolled round to the Wrychester Club--an exclusive
institution, the members of which were drawn from the
leisured, the professional, the clerical, and the military
circles of the old city. And there, as he expected, he found
small groups discussing the morning's tragedy, and he joined
one of them, in which was Sackville Bonham, his presumptive
rival, who was busily telling three or four other young men