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Page 105
"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."
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