True, he said to himself, as he walked across the links and over the country which lay between their edge and Wrychester, he had not, even now, the accurate knowledge as to the actual murderer of either Braden or Collishaw that he would have liked, but he knew something that would enable him to ask Mary Bewery point-blank whether he was to be friend or enemy.

And he was still considering the best way of putting his case to her when, having failed to meet her on the way, he at last turned into the Close, and as he approached Ransford's house, saw Mrs.Folliot leaving it.
Mary Bewery, like Bryce, had been having a day of events.

To begin with, Ransford had received a wire from London, first thing in the morning, which had made him run, breakfastless, to catch the next express.

He had left Mary to make arrangements about his day's work, for he had not yet replaced Bryce, and she had been obliged to seek out another practitioner who could find time from his own duties to attend to Ransford's urgent patients.

Then she had had to see callers who came to the surgery expecting to find Ransford there; and in the middle of a busy morning, Mr.Folliot had dropped in, to bring her a bunch of roses, and, once admitted, had shown unmistakable signs of a desire to gossip.
"Ransford out ?" he asked as he sat down in the dining-room.