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 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.