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Page 108
"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!"
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