Part 33 (1/2)

”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 wis.h.i.+ng 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.