The Paradise Mystery by J. S. Fletcher (simple e reader TXT) 📗

pergola of rambler roses, “who are you, like? I read a queer account in this morning's local paper of what happened in the Cathedral grounds yonder last night, and there was a person of your name mentioned. Are you that Glassdale?”

“The same, Mr. Folliot,” answered the visitor, promptly.

“Then you knew Braden—the man who lost his life here?” asked Folliot.

“Very well indeed,” replied Glassdale.

“For how long?” demanded Folliot.

“Some years—as a mere acquaintance, seen now and then,” said Glassdale. “A few years, recently, as what you might call a close friend.”

“Tell you any of his secrets?” asked Folliot.

“Yes, he did!” answered Glassdale.

“Anything that seems to relate to his death—and the mystery about it?” inquired Folliot.

“I think so,” said Glassdale. “Upon consideration, I think so!”

“Ah—and what might it be, now?” continued Folliot. He gave Glassdale a look which seemed to denote and imply several things. “It might be to your advantage to explain a bit, you know,” he added. “One has to be a little—vague, eh?”

“There was a certain man that Braden was very anxious to find,” said Glassdale. “He'd been looking for him for a good many years.”

“A man?” asked Folliot. “One?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, there were two,” admitted Glassdale, “but there was one in particular. The other—the second—so Braden said, didn't matter; he was or had been, only a sort of cat's-paw of the man he especially wanted.”

“I see,” said Folliot. He pulled out a cigar case and offered a cigar to his visitor, afterwards lighting one himself. “And what did Braden want that man for?” he asked.

Glassdale waited until his cigar was in full going order before he answered this question. Then he replied in one word.

“Revenge!”

Folliot put his thumbs in the armholes of his buff waistcoat and leaning back, seemed to be admiring his roses.

“Ah!” he said at last. “Revenge, now? A sort of vindictive man, was he? Wanted to get his knife into somebody, eh?”

“He wanted to get something of his own back from a man who'd done him,” answered Glassdale, with a short laugh. “That's about it!”

For a minute or two both men smoked in silence. Then Folliot—still regarding his roses—put a leading question.

“Give you any details?” he asked.

“Enough,” said Glassdale. “Braden had been done—over a money transaction—by these men—one especially, as head and front of the affair—and it had cost him—more than anybody would think! Naturally, he wanted—if he ever got the chance—his revenge. Who wouldn't?”

“And he'd tracked 'em down, eh?” asked Folliot.

“There are questions I can answer, and there are questions I can't answer,” responded Glassdale. “That's one of the questions I've no reply to. For—I don't know! But—I can say this. He hadn't tracked 'em down the day before he came to Wrychester!”

“You're sure of that?” asked Folliot. “He—didn't come here on that account?”

“No, I'm sure he didn't!” answered Glassdale, readily. “If he had, I should have known. I was with him till noon the day he came here—in London—and when he took his ticket at Victoria for Wrychester, he'd no more idea than the man in the moon as to where those men had got to. He mentioned it as we were having a bit of lunch together before he got into the train. No—he didn't come to Wrychester for any such purpose as that! But—”

He paused and gave Folliot a meaning glance out of the corner of his eyes.

“Aye—what?” asked Folliot.

“I think he met at least one of 'em here,” said Glassdale, quietly. “And—perhaps both.”

“Leading to—misfortune for him?” suggested Folliot.

“If you like to put it that way—yes,” assented Glassdale.

Folliot smoked a while in more reflective silence.

“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.