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Page 111
"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!"
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