The Paradise Mystery by J. S. Fletcher (best autobiographies to read TXT) 📕

visitor. “I suppose you know his story—and mine?” he asked. “Bygone affairs, eh?”

“Yes, yes!” answered Bryce reassuringly. “No need to go into that—that's all done with.”

“Aye—well, we both put things right,” said Glassdale. “Made restitution—both of us, you understand. So that is done with? And you know, then, of course, who Braden really was?”

“John Brake, ex bank-manager,” answered Bryce promptly. “I know all about it. I've been deeply interested and concerned in his death. And I'll tell you why. I want to marry his daughter.”

Glassdale turned and stared at his companion.

“His daughter!” he exclaimed. “Brake's daughter! God bless my soul! I never knew he had a daughter!”

It was Bryce's turn to stare now. He looked at Glassdale incredulously.

“Do you mean to tell me that you knew Brake all those years and that he never mentioned his children?” he exclaimed.

“Never a word of 'em!” replied Glassdale. “Never knew he had any!”

“Did he never speak of his past?” asked Bryce.

“Not in that respect,” answered Glassdale. “I'd no idea that he was—or had been—a married man. He certainly never mentioned wife nor children to me, sir, and yet I knew Brake about as intimately as two men can know each other for some years before we came back to England.”

Bryce fell into one of his fits of musing. What could be the meaning of this extraordinary silence on Brake's part? Was there still some hidden secret, some other mystery at which he had not yet guessed?

“Odd!” he remarked at last after a long pause during which Glassdale had watched him curiously. “But, did he ever speak to you of an old friend of his named Ransford—a doctor?”

“Never!” said Glassdale. “Never mentioned such a man!”

Bryce reflected again, and suddenly determined to be explicit.

“John Brake, the bank manager,” he said, “was married at a place called Braden Medworth, in Leicestershire, to a girl named Mary Bewery. He had two children, who would be, respectively, about four and one years of age when his—we'll call it misfortune—happened. That's a fact!”

“First I ever heard of it, then,” said Glassdale. “And that's a fact, too!”

“He'd also a very close friend named Ransford—Mark Ransford,” continued Bryce. “This Ransford was best man at Brake's wedding.”

“Never heard him speak of Ransford, nor of any wedding!” affirmed Glassdale. “All news to me, doctor.”

“This Ransford is now in practice in Wrychester,” said Bryce. “And he has two young people living with him as his wards—a girl of twenty, a boy of seventeen—who are, without doubt, John Brake's children. It is the daughter that I want to marry.”

Glassdale shook his head as if in sheer perplexity.

“Well, all I can say is, you surprise me!” he remarked. “I'd no idea of any such thing.”

“Do you think Brake came to Wrychester because of that?” asked Bryce.

“How can I answer that, sir, when I tell you that I never heard him breathe one word of any children?” exclaimed Glassdale. “No! I know his reason for coming to Wrychester. It was wholly and solely—as far as I know—to tell the Duke here about that jewel business, the secret of which had been entrusted to Brake and me by a man on his death-bed in Australia. Brake came to Wrychester by himself—I was to join him next morning: we were then to go to see the Duke together. When I got to Wrychester, I heard of Brake's accident, and being upset by it, I went away again and waited some days until yesterday, when I made up my mind to tell the Duke myself, as I did, with very fortunate results. No, that's the only reason I know of why Brake came this way. I tell you I knew nothing at all of his family affairs! He was a very close man, Brake, and apart from his business matters, he'd only one idea in his head, and that was lodged there pretty firmly, I can assure you!”

“What was it?” asked Bryce.

“He wanted to find a certain man—or, rather, two men—who'd cruelly deceived and wronged him, but one of 'em in particular,” answered Glassdale. “The particular one he believed to be in Australia, until near the end, when he got an idea that he'd left for England; as for the other, he didn't bother much about him. But the man that he did want!—ah, he wanted him badly!”

“Who was that man?” asked Bryce.

“A man of the name of Falkiner Wraye,” answered Glassdale promptly. “A man he'd known in London. This Wraye, together with his partner, a man called Flood, tricked Brake into lending 'em several thousands pounds—bank's money, of course—for a couple of days—no more—and then clean disappeared, leaving him to pay the piper! He was a fool, no doubt, but he'd been mixed up with them; he'd done it before, and they'd always kept their promises, and he did it once too often. He let 'em have some thousands; they disappeared, and the bank inspector happened to call at Brake's bank and ask for his balances. And—there he was. And—that's why he'd Falkiner Wraye on his mind—as his one big idea. T'other man was a lesser consideration, Wraye was the chief offender.”

“I wish you'd tell me all you know about Brake,” said Bryce after a pause during which he had done some thinking. “Between ourselves, of course.”

“Oh—I don't know that there's so much secrecy!” replied Glassdale almost indifferently. “Of course, I knew him first when we were both inmates of—you understand where; no need for particulars. But after we left that place, I never saw him again until we met in Australia a few years ago. We were both in the same trade—speculating in wool. We got pretty thick and used to see each other a great deal, and of course, grew confidential. He told me in time about his affair, and how he'd traced this Wraye to the United States, and then, I think, to New Zealand, and afterwards to Australia, and as I was knocking about the country a great deal buying up wool, he asked me to help him, and gave me a description of Wraye, of whom, he said, he'd certainly heard something when he first landed at Sydney, but had never been able to trace afterwards. But it was no good—I never either saw or heard of Wraye—and Brake came to the conclusion he'd left Australia. And I know he hoped to get news of him, somehow, when we returned to England.”

“That description, now?—what was it?” asked Bryce.

“Oh!” said Glassdale. “I can't remember it all, now—big man, clean shaven, nothing very particular except one thing. Wraye, according to Brake, had a bad scar on his left jaw and had lost the middle finger of his left hand—all from a gun accident. He—what's the matter, sir?”

Bryce had suddenly let his pipe fall from his lips. He took some time in picking it up. When he raised himself again his face was calm if a little flushed from stooping.