The Paradise Mystery by J. S. Fletcher (best autobiographies to read TXT) 📕

promptly proceeded—selecting the offerer of the larger reward. He presently found himself in the presence of an astute-looking man who, having had his visitor's name sent in to him, regarded Glassdale with very obvious curiosity.

“Mr. Glassdale?” he said inquiringly, as the caller took an offered chair. “Are you, by any chance, the Mr. Glassdale whose name is mentioned in connection with last night's remarkable affair?”

He pointed to a copy of the weekly newspaper, lying on his desk, and to a formal account of the discovery of the Saxonsteade jewels which had been furnished to the press, at the Duke's request, by Mitchington. Glassdale glanced at it—unconcernedly.

“The same,” he answered. “But I didn't call here on that matter—though what I did call about is certainly relative to it. You've offered a reward for any information that would lead to the solution of that mystery about Braden—and the other man, Collishaw.”

“Of a thousand pounds—yes!” replied the solicitor, looking at his visitor with still more curiosity, mingled with expectancy. “Can you give any?”

Glassdale pulled out the two handbills which he had obtained from Bryce.

“There are two rewards offered,” he remarked. “Are they entirely independent of each other?”

“We know nothing of the other,” answered the solicitor. “Except, of course, that it exists. They're quite independent.”

“Who's offering the five hundred pound one?” asked Glassdale.

The solicitor paused, looking his man over. He saw at once that Glassdale had, or believed he had, something to tell—and was disposed to be unusually cautious about telling it.

“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 Glassdale. “Who's at the back of yours—a thousand?”

The solicitor smiled.

“You haven't answered my question, Mr. Glassdale,” he observed. “Can you give any information?”

Glassdale threw his questioner a significant glance.

“Whatever information I might give,” he said, “I'd only give to a principal—the principal. 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,” assented Glassdale. “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 principal. I wouldn't tell you, for instance—as your principal's solicitor.”

The solicitor smiled again.

“Your ideas, Mr. Glassdale, appear to fit in with our principal'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 Glassdale. “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 Glassdale. “Who's your client?”

The solicitor pulled a scrap of paper towards him and wrote a few words on it. He pushed it towards his caller, and Glassdale 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.”

Glassdale 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 wishing 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.”

Glassdale 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.”

Glassdale went away then—and walked slowly towards the Cathedral precincts. On his way he passed 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—Glassdale entered by the garden door, and in another minute came face to face with Folliot himself, busied, as usual, amongst his rose-trees.

Glassdale 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 Glassdale, 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 Glassdale, glancing him up and down calmly. Glassdale lifted his slouch hat and advanced.

“Mr. Folliot, I believe, sir?” he said. “Mr. Stephen Folliot?”

“Aye, just so!” responded Folliot. “But I don't know you. Who may you be, now?”

“My name, sir, is Glassdale,” answered the other. “I've just come from your solicitor's. I called to see him this afternoon—and he told me that the business I called about could only be dealt with—or discussed—with you. So—I came here.”

Folliot, who had been cutting slips off a rose-tree, closed his knife and put it away in his old jacket. He turned and quietly inspected his visitor once more.

“Aye!” he said quietly. “So you're after that thousand pound reward, eh?”

“I should have no objection to it, Mr. Folliot,” replied Glassdale.

“I dare say not,” remarked Folliot, dryly. “I dare say not! And which are you, now?—one of those who think they can tell something, or one that really can tell? Eh?”

“You'll know that better when we've had a bit of talk, Mr. Folliot,” answered Glassdale, accompanying his reply with a direct glance.

“Oh, well, now then, I've no objection to a bit of talk—none whatever!” said Folliot. “Here!—we'll sit down on that bench, amongst the roses. Quite private here—nobody about. And now,” he continued, as Glassdale accompanied him to a rustic bench set beneath a