Bryce

“ Bryce remarked drily. “’Tis no case of walking quietly on shore. I’ll be back in good time, my dear, to protect you both, though, indeed, should the French arrive, my place would be in the ranks with others.”
Mr. Bryce had not been in such excellent spirits for many a day. He was a quiet and meek-mannered little man commonly, but the prospect of a fight made him feel quite young again. When next he returned he carried a musket with supreme satisfaction. Few middle-aged men have not some remnants of boyhood in them, and all the boyhood in Mr. Bryce came that day to the surface. ”

“ TO BRYCE the schoolmaster, to the doctor, and most of all to Eleanor Malton the month that followed was a month of amazement.
Aire leaped forward and up. What Eleanor and Bryce had planned to be a steady educating became less an educating than a pouring of knowledge into the new and incredibly capacious mind of the gravel-digger. He consumed that which Bryce had to offer like fire consuming dry bracken. He forgot nothing. His bewildering power of memory astonished Bryce. ”

“ Bryce had no spice of bashfulness, no want of confidence anywhere in his nature; he determined to attack Glassdale there and then. But he took a good look at his man before going out into the garden to him. A plain and ordinary sort of fellow, he thought; rather over middle age, with a tinge of grey in his hair and moustache; prosperous looking and well-dressed, and at that moment of the appearance of what he was probably taken for by the inn people—a tourist. ”

“ Bryce soliloquized. “He's like one of his own big redwood trees; his head is always above the storm.”
Straightway Bryce left the office and went home to the old house on the knoll. John Cardigan was sitting on the veranda, and from a stand beside him George Sea Otter entertained him with a phonograph selection—“The Suwanee River,” sung by a male quartet. As the gate clicked, John raised his head; then as Bryce's quick step spurned the cement walk up the little old-fashioned garden, he rose and stood with one hand outstretched and trembling a little. ”

“ There was a little wicket-gate there, set in the ivied wall; as Bryce opened it, a man in the working dress of a stone-mason, whom he recognized as being one of the master-mason's staff, came running out of the bushes. His face, too, was white, and his eyes were big with excitement. And recognizing Bryce, he halted, panting.
“What is it, Varner?” asked Bryce calmly. “Something happened?”
The man swept his hand across his forehead as if he were dazed, and then jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
“A man!” he gasped. “Foot of St. Wrytha's Stair there, doctor. Dead—or if not dead, near it. ”

“ However since the follower certainly would not openly run after him, the most logical thing to do, Bryce decided, was to run to the hotel as if he were in a hurry. The idea irritated him.
He walked on, slowing perversely. It was irrational to walk, and he knew it, but he walked, and the knowledge that it was irrational irritated him further. The skin between his shoulder blades itched meditatively in its own imaginative anticipation of an entering needle. What good did it do him to be proud of his brains when he put himself in a spot where he walked around like a target? ”

“ Bryce, as he sat near the open window; a small and ugly and genial man, in flowered waistcoat, velvet tights, and silver-buckled shoes. “You’re just in time, my good fellow. In three days we’re off to Brighthelmstone.”
“And if I might but have had my will, we should be there already,” added his “better-half” discontentedly.
“How d’you all do? How do you do, ma’am? Find yourself well, Polly? Heard the news? I suppose not.”
“What news?” at the same moment from Mr. and Mrs. Bryce, Polly and Molly.
“Sir John Moore is ordered off to Spain, and our regiment is under orders too.” ”

“ The active brain that had stood Bryce in good stead while he spun his meshes and devised his schemes was more active than ever that early summer morning. It was a ten-mile ride through woods and valleys to Saxonsteade, and there were sights and beauties of nature on either side of him which any other man would have lingered to admire and most men would have been influenced by. ”

“ Bryce told her.
There was a dogged note in the girl's voice as she replied. "I know I was wrong, but I just can't do what you want. I can't say more than that."
"I'm sorry you look at things that way," Bryce said. "I had hoped...." I did not catch the nature of his hope, for his voice dropped an octave or so and his sentence ended in whispers.
"Jimmy Carstairs," I said to myself, "you've been eavesdropping and you know it. You mustn't be caught doing those kind of things. Get out of the way as fast as you can," and at that I twisted round on my heel and went back down the hall. ”

“ His new assistant and bodyguard was pleasantly deferential, lighting cigarettes for him, listening respectfully to his opinions, drawing him out with questions that showed he understood what he was listening to.
Bryce could not remember having had such a good time talking since he left the company of the meteorite miners at the Belt. Everything he said seemed right and even brilliant. As he talked and told anecdotes of his life and sketched some of his plans he saw his past life with peculiar vividness as if he were a stranger seeing it for the first time. ”

“ Outwardly, Bryce was rather more than presentable—a tall, good-looking man of twenty-eight or thirty, whom some people—women especially—would call handsome; he was the sort of young man who knows the value of good clothes and a smart appearance, and his professional manner was all that could be desired. But Ransford could not help distinguishing between Bryce the doctor and Bryce the man—and Bryce the man he did not like. ”

“ Ransford had something to do with that affair,” answered Bryce. “Unpleasant—unfortunate—but it's a fact.”
“Impossible!” exclaimed Mary with a heightening colour. “What could he have to do with it? What could give rise to such foolish—wicked—rumours?”
“You know as well as I do how people talk, how they will talk,” said Bryce. “You can't stop them, in a place like Wrychester, where everybody knows everybody. There's a mystery around Braden's death—it's no use denying it. ”

“ At the most pretentious shanty on the street Bryce turned in. He had never seen it before, but he knew it to be the woods-boss's home, for unlike its neighbours the house was painted with the coarse red paint that is used on box-cars, while a fence, made of fancy pointed pickets painted white, inclosed a tiny garden in front of the house. As Bryce came through the gate, a young girl rose from where she knelt in a bed of freshly transplanted pansies.
Bryce lifted his hat. “Is Mr. McTavish at home?” he asked.
She nodded. “He cannot see anybody,” she hastened to add. “He's sick.” ”

“ Varner turned back, making a way through the cypresses. He led Bryce to the foot of the great wall of the nave. There in the corner formed by the angle of nave and transept, on a broad pavement of flagstones, lay the body of a man crumpled up in a curiously twisted position. And with one glance, even before he reached it, Bryce knew what body it was—that of the man who had come, shyly and furtively, to Ransford's door. ”

“ He flickered the hook with his finger. "Exchange," he said, giving his number, "can you tell me who was speaking just now?"
"Box three, G. P. O. public 'phones," said the girl wearily.
"Oh, hell!" said Bryce in disgust, and hung up the receiver.
The rest of the week passed without incident of any sort, and, despite the warning he had received. Bryce went on calmly with his preparations. For all the fat flabbiness of him he was grit through and through, and it took more than a warning over the telephone to turn him aside once he had made up his mind to take a certain course. ”

“ The place was still and gloomy, full of grim forebodings, like a summer sky in which a storm is gathering.
"We must have been mistaken," Bryce remarked in his embracing way. "There doesn't seem to be anyone about."
"Hands up!" snapped a crisp voice, and in the surprise of the moment Bryce obeyed. Cumshaw had no such intention. He dropped suddenly on to the ground even as a shot rang out, and a bullet whistled close above his head. The next instant he was crashing swiftly through the bushes, spinning down into the gully like a human projectile. ”

“ Bryce asked.
“My woods-boss, Jules Rondeau, makes them keep the peace,” Pennington replied with a small smile. “If there's any fighting to be done, he does it.”
“You mean among his own crew, of course,” Bryce suggested.
“No, he's in charge of the mad-train, and whether a fight starts among your men or ours, he takes a hand. He's had them all behaving mildly for quite a while, because he can whip any man in the country, and everybody realizes it. I don't know what I'd do without Rondeau. He certainly makes those bohunks of mine step lively.” ”

“ His dark expressionless eyes met Bryce's, and Bryce felt the impact of them, and realized for the first time that there was the same slight bitter off-hand smile on his own lips, and inwardly the quiet ironical mood with the still clarity of a deep pool. His own mood? He hefted the gun in his hand, feeling its weight and balance. “You could have done that over the televiewer,” he pointed out dispassionately. “What is the average mortality, do you know?”
“Not high. It is only inexperience that is dangerous. If one can get through one's first three or four cases, it's safe enough.” ”

“ Whatever sort of man are you? Do you want to know my opinion of you in plain words?”
“You seem very anxious to give it, anyway,” retorted Bryce.
“I will give it, and it will perhaps put an end to this,” answered Mary. “If you are in possession of anything in the way of evidence which would prove Dr. Ransford's innocence and you are wilfully suppressing it, you are bad, wicked, base, cruel, unfit for any decent being's society! And,” she added, as she picked up her work and rose, “you're not going to have any more of mine!”
“A moment!” said Bryce. ”

“ There had only been one man behind the rocks, and I could have sworn on a stack of Bibles that there wasn't another human being—with the sole exception of the men a mile or so along the beach—within coo-ee at the time. "You've been there before, my friend," I thought. "This isn't the first time you've flushed a chap with a bit of hardware." From what I could see Bryce hadn't the slightest intention of making me as wise as himself and even the broad hint I gave him didn't seem to move him in the least. ”

“ Not a man to be easily startled—not easily turned from a purpose, this, thought Ransford as he glanced at Bryce's eyes, which had a trick of fastening their gaze on people with an odd, disconcerting persistency. ”

“ Ransford was emerging hastily from a postern door in the west porch—so hastily that Bryce checked himself to look at him. And though they were twenty yards apart, Bryce saw that Ransford's face was very pale, almost to whiteness, and that he was unmistakably agitated. Instantly he connected that agitation with the man who had come to the surgery door.
“They've met!” mused Bryce, and stopped, staring after Ransford's retreating figure. “Now what is it in that man's mere presence that's upset Ransford? He looks like a man who's had a nasty, unexpected shock—a bad 'un!” ”

“ Bryce returned to her book.
“By Jove, Max, you’re hard as rocks.”
“Oh, get out, Wally. I’m not interested in your conversation. Go liven up the party.”
“Why don’t you try a younger governess, for a change?” he went on, undeterred. “Wilder is so old and sort of set.”
Mrs. Bryce closed her book with irritated finality.
[Pg 10]
“Wally, I will give you a chance at running our darling child for the rest of this summer. I declare a strike! You get her governesses, you donate your society to her. You’ve got nothing to do. She may keep you out of mischief.” ”

“ Bryce said to the governess.
A maid appeared at the door to announce the first arrivals.
“Now, you see, your guests are coming, and you aren’t even dressed.”
“I won’t go,” reiterated the child, sullenly.
“If we ask Patsy, will you go?” asked Mrs. Bryce desperately.
“No—o; yes.”
“Put on her clothes, Miss Wilder, and telephone the Lodge that Isabelle wants Patsy for her party.”
“But, Mrs. Bryce, do you think we ought to humour her? Will not the children’s mothers object to Patsy?”
“Well, if you want her to go to this party, you’d better make a bargain with her. I know her.” ”

“ Gilwaters.
“Said to be dead—long since,” answered Bryce. “And their father, too. They know nothing. Ransford won't tell them anything. But, as you say—I've no doubt of it myself now—they must be the children of John Brake.”
“And have taken the name of their mother!” remarked the old man.
“Had it given to them,” said Bryce. “They don't know that it isn't their real name. Of course, Ransford has given it to them! But now—the mother?”
“Ah, yes, the mother!” said Mr. Gilwaters. “Our old governess! Dear me!” ”

“ Their features were not visible, for each of them wore a handkerchief about his face in the time-honored fashion of the men of the road, and a hat pulled well down over the eyes completed the disguise.
"Well, Mr. Bryce," said the man in front, "what have you got to say for yourself?"
"It's a funny thing," remarked Bryce, with the adventures of Mr. Cumshaw and the late Mr. Bradby in his mind, "it's funny how history repeats itself."
The leader made a step forward and stared intently at Bryce. "You're the man right enough," he said. "Where's your pal?" ”

“ Things have certainly gone to the devil,” he continued.
“No fault of mine,” Sinclair protested. “I've never paid any attention to matters outside the office. Your father looked after everything else.”
Bryce looked at Sinclair. The latter was a thin, spare, nervous man in the late fifties, and though generally credited with being John Cardigan's manager, Bryce knew that Sinclair was in reality little more than a glorified bookkeeper—and a very excellent bookkeeper indeed. Bryce realized that in the colossal task that confronted him he could expect no real help from Sinclair. ”