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Page 78
The forestalling of his plans about the hiding-place in
Paradise had upset Bryce's schemes--he had figured on being
able to turn that secret, whatever it was, to his own
advantage. It struck him now, as he meditated, that he had
never known exactly what he expected to get out of that
secret--but he had hoped that it would have been something
which would make a few more considerable and tightly-strung
meshes in the net which he was endeavouring to weave around
Ransford. Now he was faced by the fact that it was not going
to yield anything in the way of help--it was a secret no
longer, and it had yielded nothing beyond the mere knowledge
that John Braden, who was in reality John Brake, had carried
the secret to Warchester--to reveal it in the proper quarter.
That helped Bryce in no way--so far as he could see. And
therefore it was necessary to re-state his case to himself; to
take stock; to see where he stood--and more than all, to put
plainly before his own mind exactly what he wanted.
And just before Mitchington and the detective came up the path
to his door, Bryce had put his notions into clear phraseology.
His aim was definite--he wanted to get Ransford completely
into his power, through suspicion of Ransford's guilt in the
affairs of Braden and Collishaw. He wanted, at the same time,
to have the means of exonerating him--whether by fact or by
craft--so that, as an ultimate method of success for his own
projects he would be able to go to Mary Bewery and say
"Ransford's very life is at my mercy: if I keep silence, he's
lost: if I speak, he's saved: it's now for you to say whether
I'm to speak or hold my tongue--and you're the price I want
for my speaking to save him!" It was in accordance with his
views of human nature that Mary Bewery would accede to his
terms: he had not known her and Ransford for nothing, and he
was aware that she had a profound gratitude for her guardian,
which might even be akin to a yet unawakened warmer feeling.
The probability was that she would willingly sacrifice herself
to save Ransford--and Bryce cared little by what means he won
her, fair or foul, so long as he was successful. So now, he
said to himself, he must make a still more definite move
against Ransford. He must strengthen and deepen the
suspicions which the police already had: he must give them
chapter and verse and supply them with information, and get
Ransford into the tightest of corners, solely that, in order
to win Mary Bewery, he might have the credit of pulling him
out again. That, he felt certain, he could do--if he could
make a net in which to enclose Ransford he could also invent a
two-edged sword which would cut every mesh of that net into
fragments. That would be--child's play--mere statecraft
--elementary diplomacy. But first--to get Ransford fairly
bottled up--that was the thing! He determined to lose no more
time--and he was thinking of visiting Mitchington immediately
after breakfast next morning when Mitchington knocked at his
door.
Bryce was rarely taken back, and on seeing Mitchington and a
companion, he forthwith invited them into his parlour, put out
his whisky and cigars, and pressed both on them as if their
late call were a matter of usual occurrence. And when he had
helped both to a drink, he took one himself, and tumbler in
hand, dropped into his easy chair again.
"We saw your light, doctor--so I took the liberty of dropping
into tell you a bit of news," observed the inspector. "But I
haven't introduced my friend--this is Detective-Sergeant
Jettison, of the Yard--we've got him down about this business
--must have help, you know."
Bryce gave the detective a half-sharp, half-careless look and
nodded.
"Mr. Jettison will have abundant opportunities for the
exercise of his talents!" he observed in his best cynical
manner. "I dare say he's found that out already."
"Not an easy affair, sir, to be sure," assented Jettison.
"Complicated!"
"Highly so!" agreed Bryce. He yawned, and glanced at the
inspector. "What's your news, Mitchington?" he asked, almost
indifferently.
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