The Paradise Mystery

a mere glance at it as he withdrew it from the dead man's purse, but he had seen enough of what was written on it to make him certain that it was a document-if such a mere fragment co

and bearing evidence of having been folded and kept flat in the dead man's purse for some time-the creases were well-defined, the edges were worn and s

rycestr. j

. ex cap.

Richard Jenkins, or, possibly, Jenkinson, from, or behind, the head, twenty-three, fifteen-inches, most likely. There was no doubt that there was the meaning of the words. What, now, was it that lay behind the tomb of Richard Jenkins, or Jenkinson, in Wrychester Paradise?-in all pro

as the man who ha

the name of

sh to make a per

f Saxo

an who had known

sford had no desi

d meet him-in

rd who flung him

ytha's

eal reason of the

ound Ransford a

overy of

tive, alert man who was certainly of no more than middle age and did not look his years, had come to Wrychester only a few years previously, and had never shown any signs of forsaking his single state. No one had ever heard him mention his family or relations; then, suddenly, without warning, he had brought into his house Mary Bewery, a handsome young woman of nineteen, who was said to have only just left school, and her brother Richard, then a boy of sixteen, who had certainly been at a public school of repute and was entered at the famous Dean's School of Wrychester

called their present-their recent schooldays, their youthful experiences, games, pursuits-but none of what, under any circumstances, could have been a very far-distant past. Bryce's quick and attentive ears discovered things-for instance that for many years past Ransford had been in the habit of spending his annual two months' holiday with these two. Year after year-at any rate since the boy's tenth year-he had taken them travelling; Bryce heard scraps of reminiscences of tours in France, and in Switzerland, and in Ireland, and in Scotland-even as far af

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

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

ever the old chap got up into that clerestory gallery. Look here!-it's like this. My stepfather had gone in there for the morning service-strict old church-goer he is, you know-and he saw this stranger

the mason, says he saw the

group nodde

ppened as well as anybody," he said. "You w

he time-I could fix it in this way-the organist was

efore that-which proves Mr. Folliot to be right. Now what does that prove? Why, that the old chap's assailant, whoever he was, dogged

eaning back in a tilted chair, hands in pockets, watching Sac

. "You're adopting the mason's tale as true. But I don't belie

aker-young Archdale, a member of

imed. "But Varner say

lways going over it, professionally. Just at that doorway, at the head of St. Wrytha's Stair, the flooring of the clerestory gallery is worn so smooth that it's like a piece of glass-and it slopes! Slopes

ment's silence-broken at

Sackville. "He saw a white shirt cuff, a bit of the sleeve of a coa

ck coat impressed upon him, as in a flash-and they were probably those of the man who was killed. If, as I suggest, the man slipped, and was shot out of that open doorway, he would execute some violent and curious movements in the effor

In that case, what was the reason of Ransford's unmistakable agitation on leaving the west porch, and of his attack-equally unmistakable-of nerves in the surgery? But what Archdale had said made him inqu

he turret door. "Closed, doctor-by order of the Dean and Chapter," he announced. "Till further orders. The fact was, sir," he went on confidentially, "after the news

any strange person being seen lurking a

ary thing that none of them ever saw this strange gentleman go up there, nor even heard any scuffle. They say-the vergers-tha

round to the wicket gate which admitted to that side of Paradise-to fin

shrubs in the place if orders hadn't been given! They were ma

haracterful young lady whom Bryce knew as Betty Campany, daughter of the librarian to the Dean and Chapter and therefore custodian of one of the most famous cathedral librari

k Bewery. "Shut up?-what a lot of rot! I sa

me out of the force by tomorrow if I disobeyed orders. No admittance, nowhere, nohow! But lor' bless yer!" h

ges between his guardian and the dismissed

weren't you?" he asked: "Do y

called me." He turned from the lad to glance at the girl, who was peeping curiously over the gate into the

down about this time." She turned and pulled Dick Bewery's sleeve.

her. The public firmly warned off-so to speak. 'I won't have the Cathedral turned int

went off across the Close, and the po

at they call healthy curiosity, I suppose? Ple

ection of the Library, at the other s

ything about identifying the dead man?"

t way of finding something out. And I did hear Inspector Mitchington say that they'd have to ask the Duke if h

channel for spreading the news. If Mr. John Braden had relations and friends, they would

that theory of Archdale's is a correct one?-however, there'll be more of that at the inquest tomorrow. And

rian, was pretty nearly always to be found, ready to show his treasures to the visitors and tourists who came from all parts of the world to see a collection well known to bibliophiles. And Ambrose Campany, a cheery-faced, middle-aged man, with booklover and antiquary written all over him, shockheaded, blu

ampany, "is-that book they found in the man's suit-cas