BRYCE FOUND HIMSELF at eleven o’clock next morning in a small book-lined parlor in a little house which stood in a quiet street in the neighborhood of Westbourne Grove. Over the mantelpiece, amongst other odds and ends of pictures and photographs, hung a watercolor drawing of Braden Medworth—and to him presently entered an old, silver-haired clergyman whom he at once took to be Braden Medworth’s former vicar, and who glanced inquisitively at his visitor and then at the card which Bryce had sent in with a request for an interview.
“Dr. Bryce?” he said inquiringly. “Dr. Pemberton Bryce?”
Bryce made his best bow and assumed his suavest and most ingratiating manner.
“I hope I am not intruding on your time, Mr. Gilwaters?” he said. “The fact is, I was referred to you, yesterday, by the prese
