“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!” Flood looked from one side to the other. He was leaning against his tea-table, set in the middle of his tidy living room. From the hearth his kettle sent out a pleasant singing that sounded strangely in contrast with the grim situation. “Yes, that's true,” he said at last. “But in that affair I--I wasn't the principal. I was only--only Wraye's agent, as it were: I wasn't responsible. And when Mr. Brake came here, when I met him that morning--” He paused, still looking from one to another of his audience as if entreating their belief.