"Well," he replied, after a pause. "I believe--in fact, it's an open secret--that the offer of five hundred pounds is made by Dr. Ransford."

"And--yours?" inquired Gla.s.sdale. "Who's at the back of yours--a thousand?"

The solicitor smiled.

"You haven't answered my question, Mr. Gla.s.sdale," he observed. "Can you give any information?"

Gla.s.sdale threw his questioner a significant glance.

"Whatever information I might give," he said, "I'd only give to a princ.i.p.al--the princ.i.p.al. From what I've seen and known of all this, there's more in it than is on the surface. I can tell something. I knew John Braden--who, of course, was John Brake--very well, for some years.

Naturally, I was in his confidence."

"About more than the Saxonsteade jewels, you mean?" asked the solicitor.

"About more than that," a.s.sented Gla.s.sdale. "Private matters. I've no doubt I can throw some light--some!--on this Wrychester Paradise affair.

But, as I said just now, I'll only deal with the princ.i.p.al. I wouldn't tell you, for instance--as your princ.i.p.al's solicitor."

The solicitor smiled again.

"Your ideas, Mr. Gla.s.sdale, appear to fit in with our princ.i.p.al's,"

he remarked. "His instructions--strict instructions--to us are that if anybody turns up who can give any information, it's not to be given to us, but to--himself!"

"Wise man!" observed Gla.s.sdale. "That's just what I feel about it. It's a mistake to share secrets with more than one person."

"There is a secret, then!" asked the solicitor, half slyly.

"Might be," replied Gla.s.sdale. "Who's your client?"

The solicitor pulled a sc.r.a.p of paper towards him and wrote a few words on it. He pushed it towards his caller, and Gla.s.sdale picked it up and read what had been written--Mr. Stephen Folliot, The Close.

"You'd better go and see him," said the solicitor, suggestively. "You'll find him reserved enough."

Gla.s.sdale read and re-read the name--as if he were endeavouring to recollect it, or connect it with something.

"What particular reason has this man for wishing to find this out?" he inquired.

"Can't say, my good sir!" replied the solicitor, with a smile. "Perhaps he'll tell you. He hasn't told me."

Gla.s.sdale rose to take his leave. But with his hand on the door he turned.

"Is this gentleman a resident in the place?" he asked.

"A well-known townsman," replied the solicitor. "You'll easily find his house in the Close--everybody knows it."

Gla.s.sdale went away then--and walked slowly towards the Cathedral precincts. On his way he pa.s.sed two places at which he was half inclined to call--one was the police-station; the other, the office of the solicitors who were acting on behalf of the offerer of five hundred pounds. He half glanced at the solicitor's door--but on reflection went forward. A man who was walking across the Close pointed out the Folliot residence--Gla.s.sdale entered by the garden door, and in another minute came face to face with Folliot himself, busied, as usual, amongst his rose-trees.

Gla.s.sdale saw Folliot and took stock of him before Folliot knew that a stranger was within his gates. Folliot, in an old jacket which he kept for his horticultural labours, was taking slips from a standard; he looked as harmless and peaceful as his occupation. A quiet, inoffensive, somewhat benevolent elderly man, engaged in work, which suggested leisure and peace.

But Gla.s.sdale, after a first quick, searching glance, took another and longer one--and went nearer with a discreet laugh.

Folliot turned quietly, and seeing the stranger, showed no surprise. He had a habit of looking over the top rims of his spectacles at people, and he looked in this way at Gla.s.sdale, glancing him up and down calmly.

Gla.s.sdale lifted his slouch hat and advanced.

"Mr. Folliot, I believe, sir?" he said. "Mr. Stephen Folliot?"

"Aye, just so!" responded Folliot. "But I don't know you. Who may you be, now?"

"My name, sir, is Gla.s.sdale," answered the other. "I've just come from your solicitor's. I called to see him this afternoon--and he told me that the business I called about could only be dealt with--or discussed--with you. So--I came here."

Folliot, who had been cutting slips off a rose-tree, closed his knife and put it away in his old jacket. He turned and quietly inspected his visitor once more.

"Aye!" he said quietly. "So you're after that thousand pound reward, eh?"

"I should have no objection to it, Mr. Folliot," replied Gla.s.sdale.

"I dare say not," remarked Folliot, dryly. "I dare say not! And which are you, now?--one of those who think they can tell something, or one that really can tell? Eh?"

"You'll know that better when we've had a bit of talk, Mr. Folliot,"

answered Gla.s.sdale, accompanying his reply with a direct glance.

"Oh, well, now then, I've no objection to a bit of talk--none whatever!"

said Folliot. "Here!--we'll sit down on that bench, amongst the roses.

Quite private here--n.o.body about. And now," he continued, as Gla.s.sdale accompanied him to a rustic bench set beneath a pergola of rambler roses, "who are you, like? I read a queer account in this morning's local paper of what happened in the Cathedral grounds yonder last night, and there was a person of your name mentioned. Are you that Gla.s.sdale?"

"The same, Mr. Folliot," answered the visitor, promptly.

"Then you knew Braden--the man who lost his life here?" asked Folliot.

"Very well indeed," replied Gla.s.sdale.

"For how long?" demanded Folliot.

"Some years--as a mere acquaintance, seen now and then," said Gla.s.sdale.

"A few years, recently, as what you might call a close friend."

"Tell you any of his secrets?" asked Folliot.

"Yes, he did!" answered Gla.s.sdale.

"Anything that seems to relate to his death--and the mystery about it?"

inquired Folliot.

"I think so," said Gla.s.sdale. "Upon consideration, I think so!"

"Ah--and what might it be, now?" continued Folliot. He gave Gla.s.sdale a look which seemed to denote and imply several things. "It might be to your advantage to explain a bit, you know," he added. "One has to be a little--vague, eh?"

"There was a certain man that Braden was very anxious to find," said Gla.s.sdale. "He'd been looking for him for a good many years."

"A man?" asked Folliot. "One?"