"None, till I've heard what Dr. Ransford had to say," replied Mary.

Bryce disliked that ready retort. He was beginning to feel that he was being met by some force stronger that his own.

"That's all very well," he remarked. "I don't say that I wouldn't do the same. But I'm only explaining the police position, and showing you the danger likely to arise from it. The police theory is this, as far as I can make it out: Ransford, years ago, did Braden a wrong, and Braden certainly swore revenge when he could find him. Circumstances prevented Braden from seeking him closely for some time; at last they met here, by accident. Here the police aren't decided. One theory is that there was an altercation, blows, a struggle, in the course of which Braden met his death; the other is that Ransford deliberately took Braden up into the gallery and flung him through that open doorway—"

"That," observed Mary, with something very like a sneer, "seems so likely that I should think it would never occur to anybody but the sort of people you're telling me of! No man of any real sense would believe it for a minute!"

"Some people of plain common sense do believe it for all that!" retorted Bryce. "For it's quite possible. But as I say, I'm only repeating. And of course, the rest of it follows on that. The police theory is that Collishaw witnessed Braden's death at Ransford's hands, that Ransford got to know that Collishaw knew of that, and that he therefore quietly removed Collishaw. And it is on all that that they're going, and will go. Don't ask me if I think they're right or wrong! I'm only telling you what I know so as to show you what danger Ransford is in."

Mary made no immediate answer, and Bryce sat watching her. Somehow—he was at a loss to explain it to himself—things were not going as he had expected. He had confidently believed that the girl would be frightened, scared, upset, ready to do anything that he asked or suggested. But she was plainly not frightened. And the fingers which busied themselves with the fancy-work had become steady again, and her voice had been steady all along.

"Pray," she asked suddenly, and with a little satirical inflection of voice which Brice was quick to notice, "pray, how is it that you—not a policeman, not a detective!—come to know so much of all this? Since when were you taken into the confidence of Mitchington and the mysterious person from London?"

"You know as well as I do that I have been dragged into the case against my wishes," answered Bryce almost sullenly. "I was fetched to Braden—I saw him die. It was I who found Collishaw—dead. Of course, I've been mixed up, whether I would or not, and I've had to see a good deal of the police, and naturally I've learnt things."

Mary suddenly turned on him with a flash of the eye which might have warned Bryce that he had signally failed in the main feature of his adventure.

"And what have you learnt that makes you come here and tell me all this?" she exclaimed. "Do you think I'm a simpleton, Dr. Bryce? You set out by saying that Dr. Ransford is in danger from the police, and that you know more—much more than the police! what does that mean? Shall I tell you? It means that you—you!—know that the police are wrong, and that if you like you can prove to them that they are wrong! Now, then isn't that so?"

"I am in possession of certain facts," began Bryce. "I—"

Mary stopped him with a look.

"My turn!" she said. "You're in possession of certain facts. Now isn't it the truth that the facts you are in possession of are proof enough to you that Dr. Ransford is as innocent as I am? It's no use your trying to deceive me! Isn't that so?"

"I could certainly turn the police off his track," admitted Bryce, who was growing highly uncomfortable. "I could divert—"

Mary gave him another look and dropping her needlework continued to watch him steadily.

"Do you call yourself a gentleman?" she asked quietly. "Or we'll leave the term out. Do you call yourself even decently honest? For, if you do, how can you have the sheer impudence—more, insolence!—to come here and tell me all this when you know that the police are wrong and that you could—to use your own term, which is your way of putting it—turn them off the wrong track? Whatever sort of man are you? Do you want to know my opinion of you in plain words?"

"You seem very anxious to give it, anyway," retorted Bryce.

"I will give it, and it will perhaps put an end to this," answered Mary. "If you are in possession of anything in the way of evidence which would prove Dr. Ransford's innocence and you are wilfully suppressing it, you are bad, wicked, base, cruel, unfit for any decent being's society! And," she added, as she picked up her work and rose, "you're not going to have any more of mine!"

"A moment!" said Bryce. He was conscious that he had somehow played all his cards badly, and he wanted another opening. "You're misunderstanding me altogether! I never said—never inferred—that I wouldn't save Ransford."

"Then, if there's need, which I don't admit, you acknowledge that you could save him?" she exclaimed sharply. "Just as I thought. Then, if you're an honest man, a man with any pretensions to honour, why don't you at once! Any man who had such feelings as those I've just mentioned wouldn't hesitate one second. But you—you!—you come and—talk about it! As if it were a game! Dr. Bryce, you make me feel sick, mentally, morally sick."

Bryce had risen to his feet when Mary rose, and he now stood staring at her. Ever since his boyhood he had laughed and sneered at the mere idea of the finer feelings—he believed that every man has his price—and that honesty and honour are things useful as terms but of no real existence. And now he was wondering—really wondering—if this girl meant the things she said: if she really felt a mental loathing of such minds and purposes as he knew his own were, or if it were merely acting on her part. Before he could speak she turned on him again more fiercely than before.

"Shall I tell you something else in plain language?" she asked. "You evidently possess a very small and limited knowledge—if you have any at all!—of women, and you apparently don't rate their mental qualities at any high standard. Let me tell you that I am not quite such a fool as you seem to think me! You came here this afternoon to bargain with me! You happen to know how much I respect my guardian and what I owe him for the care he has taken of me and my brother. You thought to trade on that! You thought you could make a bargain with me; you were to save Dr. Ransford, and for reward you were to have me! You daren't deny it. Dr. Bryce—I can see through you!"

"I never said it, at any rate," answered Bryce.

"Once more, I say, I'm not a fool!" exclaimed Mary. "I saw through you all along. And you've failed! I'm not in the least frightened by what you've said. If the police arrest Dr. Ransford, Dr. Ransford knows how to defend himself. And you're not afraid for him! You know you aren't. It wouldn't matter twopence to you if he were hanged tomorrow, for you hate him. But look to yourself! Men who cheat, and scheme, and plot, and plan as you do come to bad ends. Mind yours! Mind the wheel doesn't come full circle. And now, if you please, go away and don't dare to come near me again!"

Bryce made no answer. He had listened, with an attempt at a smile, to all this fiery indignation, but as Mary spoke the last words he was suddenly aware of something that drew his attention from her and them. Through an opening in Ransford's garden hedge he could see the garden door of the Folliots' house across the Close. And at that moment out of it emerge Folliot himself in conversation with Glassdale!

Without a word, Bryce snatched up his hat from the table of the summer-house, and went swiftly away—a new scheme, a new idea in his mind.



CHAPTER XXIV. FINESSE

Glassdale, journeying into Wrychester half an hour after Bryce had left him at the Saxonsteade Arms, occupied himself during his ride across country in considering the merits of the two handbills which Bryce had given him. One announced an offer of five hundred pounds reward for information in the Braden-Collishaw matter; the other, of a thousand pounds. It struck him as a curious thing that two offers should be made—it suggested, at once, that more than one person was deeply interested in this affair. But who were they?—no answer to that question appeared on the handbills, which were, in each case, signed by Wrychester solicitors. To one of these Glassdale, on arriving in the old city, promptly proceeded—selecting the offerer of the larger reward. He presently found himself in the presence of an astute-looking man who, having had his visitor's name sent in to him, regarded Glassdale with very obvious curiosity.

"Mr. Glassdale?" he said inquiringly, as the caller took an offered chair. "Are you, by any chance, the Mr. Glassdale whose name is mentioned in connection with last night's remarkable affair?"

He pointed to a copy of the weekly newspaper, lying on his desk, and to a formal account of the discovery of the Saxonsteade jewels which had been furnished to the press, at the Duke's request, by Mitchington. Glassdale glanced at it—unconcernedly.

"The same," he answered. "But I didn't call here on that matter—though what I did call about is certainly relative to it. You've offered a reward for any information that would lead to the solution of that mystery about Braden—and the other man, Collishaw."

"Of a thousand pounds—yes!" replied the solicitor, looking at his visitor with still more curiosity, mingled with expectancy. "Can you give any?"

Glassdale pulled out the two handbills which he had obtained from Bryce.

"There are two rewards offered," he remarked. "Are they entirely independent of each other?"

"We know nothing of the other," answered the solicitor. "Except, of course, that it exists. They're quite independent."

"Who's offering the five hundred pound one?" asked Glassdale.

The solicitor paused, looking his man over. He saw at once that Glassdale had, or believed he had, something to tell—and was disposed to be unusually cautious about telling it.

"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 Glassdale. "Who's at the back of yours—a thousand?"

The solicitor smiled.

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

Glassdale threw his questioner a significant glance.

"Whatever information I might give," he said, "I'd only give to a principal—the principal. 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," assented Glassdale. "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 principal. I wouldn't tell you, for instance—as your principal's solicitor."

The solicitor smiled again.

"Your ideas, Mr. Glassdale, appear to fit in with our principal'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 Glassdale. "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 Glassdale. "Who's your client?"

The solicitor pulled a scrap of paper towards him and wrote a few words on it. He pushed it towards his caller, and Glassdale 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."

Glassdale 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."

Glassdale 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."

Glassdale went away then—and walked slowly towards the Cathedral precincts. On his way he passed 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—Glassdale entered by the garden door, and in another minute came face to face with Folliot himself, busied, as usual, amongst his rose-trees.

Glassdale 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 Glassdale, 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 Glassdale, glancing him up and down calmly. Glassdale 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 Glassdale," 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 Glassdale.

"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 Glassdale, 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—nobody about. And now," he continued, as Glassdale 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 Glassdale?"

"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 Glassdale.

"For how long?" demanded Folliot.

"Some years—as a mere acquaintance, seen now and then," said Glassdale. "A few years, recently, as what you might call a close friend."

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

"Yes, he did!" answered Glassdale.

"Anything that seems to relate to his death—and the mystery about it?" inquired Folliot.

"I think so," said Glassdale. "Upon consideration, I think so!"

"Ah—and what might it be, now?" continued Folliot. He gave Glassdale 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 Glassdale. "He'd been looking for him for a good many years."

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

"Well, as a matter of fact, there were two," admitted Glassdale, "but there was one in particular. The other—the second—so Braden said, didn't matter; he was or had been, only a sort of cat's-paw of the man he especially wanted."

"I see," said Folliot. He pulled out a cigar case and offered a cigar to his visitor, afterwards lighting one himself. "And what did Braden want that man for?" he asked.

Glassdale waited until his cigar was in full going order before he answered this question. Then he replied in one word.

"Revenge!"

Folliot put his thumbs in the armholes of his buff waistcoat and leaning back, seemed to be admiring his roses.

"Ah!" he said at last. "Revenge, now? A sort of vindictive man, was he? Wanted to get his knife into somebody, eh?"

"He wanted to get something of his own back from a man who'd done him," answered Glassdale, with a short laugh. "That's about it!"

For a minute or two both men smoked in silence. Then Folliot—still regarding his roses—put a leading question.

"Give you any details?" he asked.

"Enough," said Glassdale. "Braden had been done—over a money transaction—by these men—one especially, as head and front of the affair—and it had cost him—more than anybody would think! Naturally, he wanted—if he ever got the chance—his revenge. Who wouldn't?"

"And he'd tracked 'em down, eh?" asked Folliot.

"There are questions I can answer, and there are questions I can't answer," responded Glassdale. "That's one of the questions I've no reply to. For—I don't know! But—I can say this. He hadn't tracked 'em down the day before he came to Wrychester!"

"You're sure of that?" asked Folliot. "He—didn't come here on that account?"

"No, I'm sure he didn't!" answered Glassdale, readily. "If he had, I should have known. I was with him till noon the day he came here—in London—and when he took his ticket at Victoria for Wrychester, he'd no more idea than the man in the moon as to where those men had got to. He mentioned it as we were having a bit of lunch together before he got into the train. No—he didn't come to Wrychester for any such purpose as that! But—"

He paused and gave Folliot a meaning glance out of the corner of his eyes.

"Aye—what?" asked Folliot.

"I think he met at least one of 'em here," said Glassdale, quietly. "And—perhaps both."

"Leading to—misfortune for him?" suggested Folliot.

"If you like to put it that way—yes," assented Glassdale.

Folliot smoked a while in more reflective silence.

"Aye, well!" he said at last. "I suppose you haven't put these ideas of yours before anybody, now?"

"Present ideas?" asked Glassdale, sharply. "Not to a soul! I've not had 'em—very long."

"You're the sort of man that another man can do a deal with, I suppose?" suggested Folliot. "That is, if it's made worth your while, of course?"

"I shouldn't wonder," replied Glassdale. "And—if it is made worth my while."

Folliot mused a little. Then he tapped Glassdale's elbow.

"You see," he said, confidentially, "it might be, you know, that I had a little purpose of my own in offering that reward. It might be that it was a very particular friend of mine that had the misfortune to have incurred this man Braden's hatred. And I might want to save him, d'ye see, from—well, from the consequence of what's happened, and to hear about it first if anybody came forward, eh?"

"As I've done," said Glassdale.

"As—you've done," assented Folliot. "Now, perhaps it would be in the interest of this particular friend of mine if he made it worth your while to—say no more to anybody, eh?"

"Very much worth his while, Mr. Folliot," declared Glassdale.

"Aye, well," continued Folliot. "This very particular friend would just want to know, you know, how much you really, truly know! Now, for instance, about these two men—and one in particular—that Braden was after? Did—did he name 'em?"

Glassdale leaned a little nearer to his companion on the rose-screened bench.

"He named them—to me!" he said in a whisper. "One was a man called Falkiner Wraye, and the other man was a man named Flood. Is that enough?"

"I think you'd better come and see me this evening," answered Folliot. "Come just about dusk to that door—I'll meet you there. Fine roses these of mine, aren't they?" he continued, as they rose. "I occupy myself entirely with 'em."

He walked with Glassdale to the garden door, and stood there watching his visitor go away up the side of the high wall until he turned into the path across Paradise. And then, as Folliot was retreating to his roses, he saw Bryce coming over the Close—and Bryce beckoned to him.



CHAPTER XXV. THE OLD WELL HOUSE

When Bryce came hurrying up to him, Folliot was standing at his garden door with his hands thrust under his coat-tails—the very picture of a benevolent, leisured gentleman who has nothing to do and is disposed to give his time to anybody. He glanced at Bryce as he had glanced at Glassdale—over the tops of his spectacles, and the glance had no more than mild inquiry in it. But if Bryce had been less excited, he would have seen that Folliot, as he beckoned him inside the garden, swept a sharp look over the Close and ascertained that there was no one about, that Bryce's entrance was unobserved. Save for a child or two, playing under the tall elms near one of the gates, and for a clerical figure that stalked a path in the far distance, the Close was empty of life. And there was no one about, either, in that part of Folliot's big garden.

"I want a bit of talk with you," said Bryce as Folliot closed the door and turned down a side-path to a still more retired region. "Private talk. Let's go where it's quiet."

Without replying in words to this suggestion, Folliot led the way through his rose-trees to a far corner of his grounds, where an old building of grey stone, covered with ivy, stood amongst high trees. He turned the key of a doorway and motioned Bryce to enter.

"Quiet enough in here, doctor," he observed. "You've never seen this place—bit of a fancy of mine."

Bryce, absorbed as he was in the thoughts of the moment, glanced cursorily at the place into which Folliot had led him. It was a square building of old stone, its walls unlined, unplastered; its floor paved with much worn flags of limestone, evidently set down in a long dead age and now polished to marble-like smoothness. In its midst, set flush with the floor, was what was evidently a trap-door, furnished with a heavy iron ring. To this Folliot pointed, with a glance of significant interest.

"Deepest well in all Wrychester under that," he remarked. "You'd never think it—it's a hundred feet deep—and more! Dry now—water gave out some years ago. Some people would have pulled this old well-house down—but not me! I did better—I turned it to good account." He raised a hand and pointed upward to an obviously modern ceiling of strong oak timbers. "Had that put in," he continued, "and turned the top of the building into a little snuggery. Come up!"

He led the way to a flight of steps in one corner of the lower room, pushed open a door at their head, and showed his companion into a small apartment arranged and furnished in something closely approaching to luxury. The walls were hung with thick fabrics; the carpeting was equally thick; there were pictures, books, and curiosities; the two or three chairs were deep and big enough to lie down in; the two windows commanded pleasant views of the Cathedral towers on one side and of the Close on the other.

"Nice little place to be alone in, d'ye see?" said Folliot. "Cool in summer—warm in winter—modern fire-grate, you notice. Come here when I want to do a bit of quiet thinking, what?"

"Good place for that—certainly," agreed Bryce.

Folliot pointed his visitor to one of the big chairs and turning to a cabinet brought out some glasses, a syphon of soda-water, and a heavy cut-glass decanter. He nodded at a box of cigars which lay open on a table at Bryce's elbow as he began to mix a couple of drinks.

"Help yourself," he said. "Good stuff, those."

Not until he had given Bryce a drink, and had carried his own glass to another easy chair did Folliot refer to any reason for Bryce's visit. But once settled down, he looked at him speculatively.

"What did you want to see me about?" he asked.

Bryce, who had lighted a cigar, looked across its smoke at the imperturbable face opposite.

"You've just had Glassdale here," he observed quietly. "I saw him leave you."

Folliot nodded—without any change of expression.

"Aye, doctor," he said. "And—what do you know about Glassdale, now?"

Bryce, who would have cheerfully hobnobbed with a man whom he was about to conduct to the scaffold, lifted his glass and drank.

"A good deal," he answered as he set the glass down. "The fact is—I came here to tell you so!—I know a good deal about everything."

"A wide term!" remarked Folliot. "You've got some limitation to it, I should think. What do you mean by—everything?"

"I mean about recent matters," replied Bryce. "I've interested myself in them—for reasons of my own. Ever since Braden was found at the foot of those stairs in Paradise, and I was fetched to him, I've interested myself. And—I've discovered a great deal—more, much more than's known to anybody."

Folliot threw one leg over the other and began to jog his foot.

"Oh!" he said after a pause. "Dear me! And—what might you know, now, doctor? Aught you can tell me eh?"

"Lots!" answered Bryce. "I came to tell you—on seeing that Glassdale had been with you. Because—I was with Glassdale this morning."

Folliot made no answer. But Bryce saw that his cool, almost indifferent manner was changing—he was beginning, under the surface, to get anxious.

"When I left Glassdale—at noon," continued Bryce, "I'd no idea—and I don't think he had—that he was coming to see you. But I know what put the notion into his head. I gave him copies of those two reward bills. He no doubt thought he might make a bit—and so he came in to town, and—to you."

"Well?" asked Folliot.

"I shouldn't wonder," remarked Bryce, reflectively, and almost as if speaking to himself, "I shouldn't at all wonder if Glassdale's the sort of man who can be bought. He, no doubt, has his price. But all that Glassdale knows is nothing—to what I know."

Folliot had allowed his cigar to go out. He threw it away, took a fresh one from the box, and slowly struck a match and lighted it.

"What might you know, now?" he asked after another pause.

"I've a bit of a faculty for finding things out," answered Bryce boldly. "And I've developed it. I wanted to know all about Braden—and about who killed him—and why. There's only one way of doing all that sort of thing, you know. You've got to go back—a long way back—to the very beginnings. I went back—to the time when Braden was married. Not as Braden, of course—but as who he really was—John Brake. That was at a place called Braden Medworth, near Barthorpe, in Leicestershire."

He paused there, watching Folliot. But Folliot showed no more than close attention, and Bryce went on.

"Not much in that—for the really important part of the story," he continued. "But Brake had other associations with Barthorpe—a bit later. He got to know—got into close touch with a Barthorpe man who, about the time of Brake's marriage, left Barthorpe end settled in London. Brake and this man began to have some secret dealings together. There was another man in with them, too—a man who was a sort of partner of the Barthorpe man's. Brake had evidently a belief in these men, and he trusted them—unfortunately for himself he sometimes trusted the bank's money to them. I know what happened—he used to let them have money for short financial transactions—to be refunded within a very brief space. But—he went to the fire too often, and got his fingers burned in the end. The two men did him—one of them in particular—and cleared out. He had to stand the racket. He stood it—to the tune of ten years' penal servitude. And, naturally, when he'd finished his time, he wanted to find those two men—and began a long search for them. Like to know the names of the men, Mr. Folliot?"

"You might mention 'em—if you know 'em," answered Folliot.

"The name of the particular one was Wraye—Falkiner Wraye," replied Bryce promptly. "Of the other—the man of lesser importance—Flood."

The two men looked quietly at each other for a full moment's silence. And it was Bryce who first spoke with a ring of confidence in his tone which showed that he knew he had the whip hand.

"Shall I tell you something about Falkiner Wraye?" he asked. "I will!—it's deeply interesting. Mr. Falkiner Wraye, after cheating and deceiving Brake, and leaving him to pay the penalty of his over-trustfulness, cleared out of England and carried his money-making talents to foreign parts. He succeeded in doing well—he would!—and eventually he came back and married a rich widow and settled himself down in an out-of-the-world English town to grow roses. You're Falkiner Wraye, you know, Mr. Folliot!"

Bryce laughed as he made this direct accusation, and sitting forward in his chair, pointed first to Folliot's face and then to his left hand.

"Falkiner Wraye," he said, "had an unfortunate gun accident in his youth which marked him for life. He lost the middle finger of his left hand, and he got a bad scar on his left jaw. There they are, those marks! Fortunate for you, Mr. Folliot, that the police don't know all that I know, for if they did, those marks would have done for you days ago!" For a minute or two Folliot sat joggling his leg—a bad sign in him of rising temper if Bryce had but known it. While he remained silent he watched Bryce narrowly, and when he spoke, his voice was calm as ever.

"And what use do you intend to put your knowledge to, if one may ask?" he inquired, half sneeringly. "You said just now that you'd no doubt that man Glassdale could be bought, and I'm inclining to think that you're one of those men that have their price. What is it?"

"We've not come to that," retorted Bryce. "You're a bit mistaken. If I have my price, it's not in the same commodity that Glassdale would want. But before we do any talking about that sort of thing, I want to add to my stock of knowledge. Look here! We'll be candid. I don't care a snap of my fingers that Brake, or Braden's dead, or that Collishaw's dead, nor if one had his neck broken and the other was poisoned, but—whose hand was that which the mason, Varner, saw that morning, when Brake was flung out of that doorway? Come, now!—whose?"

"Not mine, my lad!" answered Folliot, confidently. "That's a fact?"

Bryce hesitated, giving Folliot a searching look. And Folliot nodded solemnly. "I tell you, not mine!" he repeated. "I'd naught to do with it!"

"Then who had?" demanded Bryce. "Was it the other man—Flood? And if so, who is Flood?"

Folliot got up from his chair and, cigar between his lips and hands under the tails of his old coat, walked silently about the quiet room for awhile. He was evidently thinking deeply, and Bryce made no attempt to disturb him. Some minutes went by before Folliot took the cigar from his lips and leaning against the chimneypiece looked fixedly at his visitor.

"Look here, my lad!" he said, earnestly. "You're no doubt, as you say, a good hand at finding things out, and you've doubtless done a good bit of ferreting, and done it well enough in your own opinion. But there's one thing you can't find out, and the police can't find out either, and that's the precise truth about Braden's death. I'd no hand in it—it couldn't be fastened on to me, anyhow."

Bryce looked up and interjected one word.

"Collishaw?"

"Nor that, neither," answered Folliot, hastily. "Maybe I know something about both, but neither you nor the police nor anybody could fasten me to either matter! Granting all you say to be true, where's the positive truth?"

"What about circumstantial evidence," asked Bryce.

"You'd have a job to get it," retorted Folliot. "Supposing that all you say is true about—about past matters? Nothing can prove—nothing!—that I ever met Braden that morning. On the other hand, I can prove, easily, that I never did meet him; I can account for every minute of my time that day. As to the other affair—not an ounce of direct evidence!"

"Then—it was the other man!" exclaimed Bryce. "Now then, who is he?"

Folliot replied with a shrewd glance.

"A man who by giving away another man gave himself away would be a damned fool!" he answered. "If there is another man—"

"As if there must be!" interrupted Bryce.

"Then he's safe!" concluded Folliot. "You'll get nothing from me about him!"

"And nobody can get at you except through him?" asked Bryce.

"That's about it," assented Folliot laconically.

Bryce laughed cynically.

"A pretty coil!" he said with a sneer. "Here! You talked about my price. I'm quite content to hold my tongue if you'd tell me something about what happened seventeen years ago."

"What?" asked Folliot.

"You knew Brake, you must have known his family affairs," said Bryce. "What became of Brake's wife and children when he went to prison?"

Folliot shook his head, and it was plain to Bryce that his gesture of dissent was genuine.

"You're wrong," he answered. "I never at any time knew anything of Brake's family affairs. So little indeed, that I never even knew he was married."

Bryce rose to his feet and stood staring.

"What!" he exclaimed. "You mean to tell me that, even now, you don't know that Brake had two children, and that—that—oh, it's incredible!"

"What's incredible?" asked Folliot. "What are you talking about?"

Bryce in his eagerness and surprise grasped Folliot's arm and shook it.

"Good heavens, man!" he said. "Those two wards of Ransford's are Brake's girl and boy! Didn't you know that, didn't you?"

"Never!" answered Folliot. "Never! And who's Ransford, then? I never heard Brake speak of any Ransford! What game is all this? What—"

Before Bryce could reply, Folliot suddenly started, thrust his companion aside and went to one of the windows. A sharp exclamation from him took Bryce to his side. Folliot lifted a shaking hand and pointed into the garden.

"There!" he whispered. "Hell and—What's this mean?"

Bryce looked in the direction pointed out. Behind the pergola of rambler roses the figures of men were coming towards the old well-house led by one of Folliot's gardeners. Suddenly they emerged into full view, and in front of the rest was Mitchington and close behind him the detective, and behind him—Glassdale!



CHAPTER XXVI. THE OTHER MAN

It was close on five o'clock when Glassdale, leaving Folliot at his garden door, turned the corner into the quietness of the Precincts. He walked about there a while, staring at the queer old houses with eyes which saw neither fantastic gables nor twisted chimneys. Glassdale was thinking. And the result of his reflections was that he suddenly exchanged his idle sauntering for brisker steps and walked sharply round to the police-station, where he asked to see Mitchington.

Mitchington and the detective were just about to walk down to the railway-station to meet Ransford, in accordance with his telegram. At sight of Glassdale they went back into the inspector's office. Glassdale closed the door and favoured them with a knowing smile.

"Something else for you, inspector!" he said. "Mixed up a bit with last night's affair, too. About these mysteries—Braden and Collishaw—I can tell you one man who's in them."

"Who, then?" demanded Mitchington.

Glassdale went a step nearer to the two officials and lowered his voice.

"The man who's known here as Stephen Folliot," he answered. "That's a fact!"

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Mitchington. Then he laughed incredulously. "Can't believe it!" he continued. "Mr. Folliot! Must be some mistake!"

"No mistake," replied Glassdale. "Besides, Folliot's only an assumed name. That man is really one Falkiner Wraye, the man Braden, or Brake, was seeking for many a year, the man who cheated Brake and got him into trouble. I tell you it's a fact! He's admitted it, or as good as done so, to me just now."

"To you? And—let you come away and spread it?" exclaimed Mitchington. "That's incredible! more astonishing than the other!"

Glassdale laughed.

"Ah, but I let him think I could be squared, do you see?" he said. "Hush-money, you know. He's under the impression that I'm to go back to him this evening to settle matters. I knew so much—identified him, as a matter of fact—that he'd no option. I tell you he's been in at both these affairs—certain! But—there's another man."

"Who's he?" demanded Mitchington.

"Can't say, for I don't know, though I've an idea he'll be a fellow that Brake was also wanting to find," replied Glassdale. "But anyhow, I know what I'm talking about when I tell you of Folliot. You'd better do something before he suspects me."

Mitchington glanced at the clock.

"Come with us down to the station," he said. "Dr. Ransford's coming in on this express from town; he's got news for us. We'd better hear that first. Folliot!—good Lord!—who'd have believed or even dreamed it!"

"You'll see," said Glassdale as they went out.

"Maybe Dr. Ransford's got the same information." Ransford was out of the train as soon as it ran in, and hurried to where Mitchington and his companions were standing. And behind him, to Mitchington's surprise, came old Simpson Harker, who had evidently travelled with him. With a silent gesture Mitchington beckoned the whole party into an empty waiting-room and closed its door on them.

"Now then, inspector," said Ransford without preface or ceremony, "you've got to act quickly! You got my wire—a few words will explain it. I went up to town this morning in answer to a message from the bank where Braden lodged his money when he returned to England. To tell you the truth, the managers there and myself have, since Braden's death, been carrying to a conclusion an investigation which I began on Braden's behalf—though he never knew of it—years ago. At the bank I met Mr. Harker here, who had called to find something out for himself. Now I'll sum things up in a nutshell: for years Braden, or Brake, had been wanting to find two men who cheated him. The name of one is Wraye, of the other, Flood. I've been trying to trace them, too. At last we've got them. They're in this town, and without doubt the deaths of both Braden and Collishaw are at their door! You know both well enough. Wraye is-"

"Mr. Folliot!" interrupted Mitchington, pointing to Glassdale. "So he's just told us; he's identified him as Wraye. But the other—who's he, doctor?"

Ransford glanced at Glassdale as if he wished to question him, but instead he answered Mitchington's question.

"The other man," he said, "the man Flood, is also a well-known man to you. Fladgate!"

Mitchington started, evidently more astonished than by the first news.

"What!" he exclaimed. "The verger! You don't say!"

"Do you remember," continued Ransford, "that Folliot got Fladgate his appointment as verger not so very long after he himself came here? He did, anyway, and Fladgate is Flood. We've traced everything through Flood. Wraye has been a difficult man to trace, because of his residence abroad for a long time and his change of name, and so on, and it was only recently that my agents struck on a line through Flood. But there's the fact. And the probability is that when Braden came here he recognized and was recognized by these two, and that one or other of them is responsible for his death and for Collishaw's too. Circumstantial evidence, all of it, no doubt, but irresistible! Now, what do you propose to do?"

Mitchington considered matters for a moment.

"Fladgate first, certainly," he said. "He lives close by here; we'll go round to his cottage. If he sees he's in a tight place he may let things out. Let's go there at once."

He led the whole party out of the station and down the High Street until they came to a narrow lane of little houses which ran towards the Close. At its entrance a policeman was walking his beat. Mitchington stopped to exchange a few words with him.

"This man Fladgate," he said, rejoining the others, "lives alone—fifth cottage down here. He'll be about having his tea; we shall take him by surprise." Presently the group stood around a door at which Mitchington knocked gently, and it was on their grave and watchful faces that a tall, clean-shaven, very solemn-looking man gazed in astonishment as he opened the door, and started back. He went white to the lips and his hand fell trembling from the latch as Mitchington strode in and the rest crowded behind.

"Now then, Fladgate!" said Mitchington, going straight to the point and watching his man narrowly, while the detective approached him closely on the other side. "I want you and a word with you at once. Your real name is Flood! What have you to say to that? And—it's no use beating about the bush—what have you to say about this Braden affair, and your share with Folliot in it, whose real name is Wraye. It's all come out about the two of you. If you've anything to say, you'd better say it."

The verger, whose black gown lay thrown across the back of a chair, looked from one face to another with frightened eyes. It was very evident that the suddenness of the descent had completely unnerved him. Ransford's practised eyes saw that he was on the verge of a collapse.

"Give him time, Mitchington," he said. "Pull yourself together," he added, turning to the man. "Don't be frightened; answer these questions!"

"For God's sake, gentlemen!" grasped the verger. "What—what is it? What am I to answer? Before God, I'm as innocent as—as any of you—about Mr. Brake's death! Upon my soul and honour I am!"

"You know all about it;" insisted Mitchington.

"Come, now, isn't it true that you're Flood, and that Folliot's Wraye, the two men whose trick on him got Brake convicted years ago? Answer that!"

Flood looked from one side to the other. He was leaning against his tea-table, set in the middle of his tidy living room. From the hearth his kettle sent out a pleasant singing that sounded strangely in contrast with the grim situation.

"Yes, that's true," he said at last. "But in that affair I—I wasn't the principal. I was only—only Wraye's agent, as it were: I wasn't responsible. And when Mr. Brake came here, when I met him that morning—"

He paused, still looking from one to another of his audience as if entreating their belief.

"As sure as I'm a living man, gentlemen!" he suddenly burst out, "I'd no willing hand in Mr. Brake's death! I'll tell you the exact truth; I'll take my oath of it whenever you like. I'd have been thankful to tell, many a time, but for—for Wraye. He wouldn't let me at first, and afterwards it got complicated. It was this way. That morning—when Mr. Brake was found dead—I had occasion to go up into that gallery under the clerestory. I suddenly came on him face to face. He recognized me. And—I'm telling you the solemn, absolute truth, gentlemen!—he'd no sooner recognized me than he attacked me, seizing me by the arm. I hadn't recognized him at first, I did when he laid hold of me. I tried to shake him off, tried to quiet him; he struggled—I don't know what he wanted to do—he began to cry out—it was a wonder he wasn't heard in the church below, and he would have been only the organ was being played rather loudly. And in the struggle he slipped—it was just by that open doorway—and before I could do more than grasp at him, he shot through the opening and fell! It was sheer, pure accident, gentlemen! Upon my soul, I hadn't the least intention of harming him."

"And after that?" asked Mitchington, at the end of a brief silence.

"I saw Mr. Folliot—Wraye," continued Flood. "Just afterwards, that was. I told him; he bade me keep silence until we saw how things went. Later he forced me to be silent. What could I do? As things were, Wraye could have disclaimed me—I shouldn't have had a chance. So I held my tongue."

"Now, then, Collishaw?" demanded Mitchington. "Give us the truth about that. Whatever the other was, that was murder!"

Flood lifted his hand and wiped away the perspiration that had gathered on his face.

"Before God, gentlemen!" he answered. "I know no more—at least, little more—about that than you do! I'll tell you all I do know. Wraye and I, of course, met now and then and talked about this. It got to our ears at last that Collishaw knew something. My own impression is that he saw what occurred between me and Mr. Brake—he was working somewhere up there. I wanted to speak to Collishaw. Wraye wouldn't let me, he bade me leave it to him. A bit later, he told me he'd squared Collishaw with fifty pounds—"

Mitchington and the detective exchanged looks.

"Wraye—that's Folliot—paid Collishaw fifty pounds, did he?" asked the detective.

"He told me so," replied Flood. "To hold his tongue. But I'd scarcely heard that when I heard of Collishaw's sudden death. And as to how that happened, or who—who brought it about—upon my soul, gentlemen, I know nothing! Whatever I may have thought, I never mentioned it to Wraye—never! I—I daren't! You don't know what a man Wraye is! I've been under his thumb most of my life and—and what are you going to do with me, gentlemen?"

Mitchington exchanged a word or two with the detective, and then, putting his head out of the door beckoned to the policeman to whom he had spoken at the end of the lane and who now appeared in company with a fellow-constable. He brought both into the cottage.

"Get your tea," he said sharply to the verger. "These men will stop with you—you're not to leave this room." He gave some instructions to the two policemen in an undertone and motioned Ransford and the others to follow him. "It strikes me," he said, when they were outside in the narrow lane, "that what we've just heard is somewhere about the truth. And now we'll go on to Folliot's—there's a way to his house round here."

Mrs. Folliot was out, Sackville Bonham was still where Bryce had left him, at the golf-links, when the pursuers reached Folliot's. A parlourmaid directed them to the garden; a gardener volunteered the suggestion that his master might be in the old well-house and showed the way. And Folliot and Bryce saw them coming and looked at each other.

"Glassdale!" exclaimed Bryce. "By heaven, man!—he's told on you!"

Folliot was still staring through the window. He saw Ransford and Harker following the leading figures. And suddenly he turned to Bryce.

"You've no hand in this?" he demanded.

"I?" exclaimed Bryce. "I never knew till just now!"

Folliot pointed to the door.

"Go down!" he said. "Let 'em in, bid 'em come up! I'll—I'll settle with 'em. Go!"

Bryce hurried down to the lower apartment. He was filled with excitement—an unusual thing for him—but in the midst of it, as he made for the outer door, it suddenly struck him that all his schemings and plottings were going for nothing. The truth was at hand, and it was not going to benefit him in the slightest degree. He was beaten.

But that was no time for philosophic reflection; already those outside were beating at the door. He flung it open, and the foremost men started in surprise at the sight of him. But Bryce bent forward to Mitchington—anxious to play a part to the last.

"He's upstairs!" he whispered. "Up there! He'll bluff it out if he can, but he's just admitted to me—"

Mitchington thrust Bryce aside, almost roughly.

"We know all about that!" he said. "I shall have a word or two for you later! Come on, now—"

The men crowded up the stairway into Folliot's snuggery, Bryce, wondering at the inspector's words and manner, following closely behind him and the detective and Glassdale, who led the way. Folliot was standing in the middle of the room, one hand behind his back, the other in his pocket. And as the leading three entered the place he brought his concealed hand sharply round and presenting a revolver at Glassdale fired point-blank at him.

But it was not Glassdale who fell. He, wary and watching, started aside as he saw Folliot's movement, and the bullet, passing between his arm and body, found its billet in Bryce, who fell, with little more than a groan, shot through the heart. And as he fell, Folliot, scarcely looking at what he had done, drew his other hand from his pocket, slipped something into his mouth and sat down in the big chair behind him ... and within a moment the other men in the room were looking with horrified faces from one dead face to another.



CHAPTER XXVII. THE GUARDED SECRET

When Bryce had left her, Mary Bewery had gone into the house to await Ransford's return from town. She meant to tell him of all that Bryce had said and to beg him to take immediate steps to set matters right, not only that he himself might be cleared of suspicion but that Bryce's intrigues might be brought to an end. She had some hope that Ransford would bring back satisfactory news; she knew that his hurried visit to London had some connection with these affairs; and she also remembered what he had said on the previous night. And so, controlling her anger at Bryce and her impatience of the whole situation she waited as patiently as she could until the time drew near when Ransford might be expected to be seen coming across the Close. She knew from which direction he would come, and she remained near the dining-room window looking out for him. But six o'clock came and she had seen no sign of him; then, as she was beginning to think that he had missed the afternoon train she saw him, at the opposite side of the Close, talking earnestly to Dick, who presently came towards the house while Ransford turned back into Folliot's garden.

Dick Bewery came hurriedly in. His sister saw at once that he had just heard news which had had a sobering effect on his usually effervescent spirits. He looked at her as if he wondered exactly how to give her his message.

"I saw you with the doctor just now," she said, using the term by which she and her brother always spoke of their guardian. "Why hasn't he come home?"

Dick came close to her, touching her arm.

"I say!" he said, almost whispering. "Don't be frightened—the doctor's all right—but there's something awful just happened. At Folliot's."

"What" she demanded. "Speak out, Dick! I'm not frightened. What is it?"

Dick shook his head as if he still scarcely realized the full significance of his news.

"It's all a licker to me yet!" he answered. "I don't understand it—I only know what the doctor told me—to come and tell you. Look here, it's pretty bad. Folliot and Bryce are both dead!"

In spite of herself Mary started back as from a great shock and clutched at the table by which they were standing.

"Dead!" she exclaimed. "Why—Bryce was here, speaking to me, not an hour ago!"

"Maybe," said Dick. "But he's dead now. The fact is, Folliot shot him with a revolver—killed him on the spot. And then Folliot poisoned himself—took the same stuff, the doctor said, that finished that chap Collishaw, and died instantly. It was in Folliot's old well-house. The doctor was there and the police."

"What does it all mean?" asked Mary.

"Don't know. Except this," added Dick; "they've found out about those other affairs—the Braden and the Collishaw affairs. Folliot was concerned in them; and who do you think the other was? You'd never guess! That man Fladgate, the verger. Only that isn't his proper name at all. He and Folliot finished Braden and Collishaw, anyway. The police have got Fladgate, and Folliot shot Bryce and killed himself just when they were going to take him."

"The doctor told you all this?" asked Mary.

"Yes," replied Dick. "Just that and no more. He called me in as I was passing Folliot's door. He's coming over as soon as he can. Whew! I say, won't there be some fine talk in the town! Anyway, things'll be cleared up now. What did Bryce want here?"

"Never mind; I can't talk of it, now," answered Mary. She was already thinking of how Bryce had stood before her, active and alive, only an hour earlier; she was thinking, too, of her warning to him. "It's all too dreadful! too awful to understand!"

"Here's the doctor coming now," said Dick, turning to the window. "He'll tell more."

Mary looked anxiously at Ransford as he came hastening in. He looked like a man who has just gone through a crisis and yet she was somehow conscious that there was a certain atmosphere of relief about him, as though some great weight had suddenly been lifted. He closed the door and looked straight at her.

"Dick has told you?" he asked.

"All that you told me," said Dick.

Ransford pulled off his gloves and flung them on the table with something of a gesture of weariness. And at that Mary hastened to speak.

"Don't tell any more—don't say anything—until you feel able," she said. "You're tired."

"No!" answered Ransford. "I'd rather say what I have to say now—just now! I've wanted to tell both of you what all this was, what it meant, everything about it, and until today, until within the last few hours, it was impossible, because I didn't know everything. Now I do! I even know more than I did an hour ago. Let me tell you now and have done with it. Sit down there, both of you, and listen."

He pointed to a sofa near the hearth, and the brother and sister sat down, looking at him wonderingly. Instead of sitting down himself he leaned against the edge of the table, looking down at them.

"I shall have to tell you some sad things," he said diffidently. "The only consolation is that it's all over now, and certain matters are, or can be, cleared and you'll have no more secrets. Nor shall I! I've had to keep this one jealously guarded for seventeen years! And I never thought it could be released as it has been, in this miserable and terrible fashion! But that's done now, and nothing can help it. And now, to make everything plain, just prepare yourselves to hear something that, at first, sounds very trying. The man whom you've heard of as John Braden, who came to his death—by accident, as I now firmly believe—there in Paradise, was, in reality, John Brake—your father!"

Ransford looked at his two listeners anxiously as he told this. But he met no sign of undue surprise or emotion. Dick looked down at his toes with a little frown, as if he were trying to puzzle something out; Mary continued to watch Ransford with steady eyes.

"Your father—John Brake," repeated Ransford, breathing more freely now that he had got the worst news out. "I must go back to the beginning to make things clear to you about him and your mother. He was a close friend of mine when we were young men in London; he a bank manager; I, just beginning my work. We used to spend our holidays together in Leicestershire. There we met your mother, whose name was Mary Bewery. He married her; I was his best man. They went to live in London, and from that time I did not see so much of them, only now and then. During those first years of his married life Brake made the acquaintance of a man who came from the same part of Leicestershire that we had met your mother in—a man named Falkiner Wraye. I may as well tell you that Falkiner Wraye and Stephen Folliot were one and the same person."

Ransford paused, observing that Mary wished to ask a question.

"How long have you known that?" she asked.

"Not until today," replied Ransford promptly. "Never had the ghost of a notion of it! If I only had known—but, I hadn't! However, to go back—this man Wraye, who appears always to have been a perfect master of plausibility, able to twist people round his little finger, somehow got into close touch with your father about financial matters. Wraye was at that time a sort of financial agent in London, engaging in various doings which, I should imagine, were in the nature of gambles. He was assisted in these by a man who was either a partner with him or a very confidential clerk or agent, one Flood, who is identical with the man you have known lately as Fladgate, the verger. Between them, these two appear to have cajoled or persuaded your father at times to do very foolish and injudicious things which were, to put it briefly and plainly, the lendings of various sums of money as short loans for their transactions. For some time they invariably kept their word to him, and the advances were always repaid promptly. But eventually, when they had borrowed from him a considerable sum—some thousands of pounds—for a deal which was to be carried through within a couple of days, they decamped with the money, and completely disappeared, leaving your father to bear the consequences. You may easily understand what followed. The money which Brake had lent them was the bank's money. The bank unexpectedly came down on him for his balance, the whole thing was found out, and he was prosecuted. He had no defence—he was, of course, technically guilty—and he was sent to penal servitude."

Ransford had dreaded the telling of this but Mary made no sign, and Dick only rapped out a sharp question.

"He hadn't meant to rob the bank for himself, anyway, had he?" he asked.

"No, no! not at all!" replied Ransford hastily. "It was a bad error of judgment on his part, Dick, but he—he'd relied on these men, more particularly on Wraye, who'd been the leading spirit. Well, that was your father's sad fate. Now we come to what happened to your mother and yourselves. Just before your father's arrest, when he knew that all was lost, and that he was helpless, he sent hurriedly for me and told me everything in your mother's presence. He begged me to get her and you two children right away at once. She was against it; he insisted. I took you all to a quiet place in the country, where your mother assumed her maiden name. There, within a year, she died. She wasn't a strong woman at any time. After that—well, you both know pretty well what has been the run of things since you began to know anything. We'll leave that, it's nothing to do with the story. I want to go back to your father. I saw him after his conviction. When I had satisfied him that you and your mother were safe, he begged me to do my best to find the two men who had ruined him. I began that search at once. But there was not a trace of them—they had disappeared as completely as if they were dead. I used all sorts of means to trace them—without effect. And when at last your father's term of imprisonment was over and I went to see him on his release, I had to tell him that up to that point all my efforts had been useless. I urged him to let the thing drop, and to start life afresh. But he was determined. Find both men, but particularly Wraye, he would! He refused point-blank to even see his children until he had found these men and had forced them to acknowledge their misdeeds as regards him, for that, of course, would have cleared him to a certain extent. And in spite of everything I could say, he there and then went off abroad in search of them—he had got some clue, faint and indefinite, but still there, as to Wraye's presence in America, and he went after him. From that time until the morning of his death here in Wrychester I never saw him again!"

"You did see him that morning?" asked Mary.

"I saw him, of course, unexpectedly," answered Ransford. "I had been across the Close—I came back through the south aisle of the Cathedral. Just before I left the west porch I saw Brake going up the stairs to the galleries. I knew him at once. He did not see me, and I hurried home much upset. Unfortunately, I think, Bryce came in upon me in that state of agitation. I have reason to believe that he began to suspect and to plot from that moment. And immediately on hearing of Brake's death, and its circumstances, I was placed in a terrible dilemma. For I had made up my mind never to tell you two of your father's history until I had been able to trace these two men and wring out of them a confession which would have cleared him of all but the technical commission of the crime of which he was convicted. Now I had not the least idea that the two men were close at hand, nor that they had had any hand in his death, and so I kept silence, and let him be buried under the name he had taken—John Braden."

Ransford paused and looked at his two listeners as if inviting question or comment. But neither spoke, and he went on.

"You know what happened after that," he continued. "It soon became evident to me that sinister and secret things were going on. There was the death of the labourer—Collishaw. There were other matters. But even then I had no suspicion of the real truth—the fact is, I began to have some strange suspicions about Bryce and that old man Harker—based upon certain evidence which I got by chance. But, all this time, I had never ceased my investigations about Wraye and Flood, and when the bank-manager on whom Brake had called in London was here at the inquest, I privately told him the whole story and invited his co-operation in a certain line which I was then following. That line suddenly ran up against the man Flood—otherwise Fladgate. It was not until this very week, however, that my agents definitely discovered Fladgate to be Flood, and that—through the investigations about Flood—Folliot was found to be Wraye. Today, in London, where I met old Harker at the bank at which Brake had lodged the money he had brought from Australia, the whole thing was made clear by the last agent of mine who has had the searching in hand. And it shows how men may easily disappear from a certain round of life, and turn up in another years after! When those two men cheated your father out of that money, they disappeared and separated—each, no doubt, with his share. Flood went off to some obscure place in the North of England; Wraye went over to America. He evidently made a fortune there; knocked about the world for awhile; changed his name to Folliot, and under that name married a wealthy widow, and settled down here in Wrychester to grow roses! How and where he came across Flood again is not exactly clear, but we knew that a few years ago Flood was in London, in very poor circumstances, and the probability is that it was then when the two men met again. What we do know is that Folliot, as an influential man here, got Flood the post which he has held, and that things have resulted as they have. And that's all!—all that I need tell you at present. There are details, but they're of no importance."

Mary remained silent, but Dick got up with his hands in his pockets.

"There's one thing I want to know," he said. "Which of those two chaps killed my father? You said it was accident—but was it? I want to know about that! Are you saying it was accident just to let things down a bit? Don't! I want to know the truth."

"I believe it was accident," answered Ransford. "I listened most carefully just now to Fladgate's account of what happened. I firmly believe the man was telling the truth. But I haven't the least doubt that Folliot poisoned Collishaw—not the least. Folliot knew that if the least thing came out about Fladgate, everything would come out about himself."

Dick turned away to leave the room.

"Well, Folliot's done for!" he remarked. "I don't care about him, but I wanted to know for certain about the other."

* * * * *

When Dick had gone, and Ransford and Mary were left alone, a deep silence fell on the room. Mary was apparently deep in thought, and Ransford, after a glance at her, turned away and looked out of the window at the sunlit Close, thinking of the tragedy he had just witnessed. And he had become so absorbed in his thoughts of it that he started at feeling a touch on his arm and looking round saw Mary standing at his side.

"I don't want to say anything now," she said, "about what you have just told us. Some of it I had half-guessed, some of it I had conjectured. But why didn't you tell me! Before! It wasn't that you hadn't confidence?"

"Confidence!" he exclaimed. "There was only one reason—I wanted to get your father's memory cleared—as far as possible—before ever telling you anything. I've been wanting to tell you! Hadn't you seen that I hated to keep silent?"

"Hadn't you seen that I wanted to share all your trouble about it?" she asked. "That was what hurt me—because I couldn't!"

Ransford drew a long breath and looked at her. Then he put his hands on her shoulders.

"Mary!" he said. "You—you don't mean to say—be plain!—you don't mean that you can care for an old fellow like me?"

He was holding her away from him, but she suddenly smiled and came closer to him.

"You must have been very blind not to have seen that for a long time!" she answered.

THE END