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Page 106
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?"
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