Mitchington exchanged a word or two with the detective, and then, putting his head out of the door beckoned to the policeman to whom he had spoken at the end of the lane and who now appeared in company with a fellow-constable. He brought both into the cottage. “Get your tea,” he said sharply to the verger. “These men will stop with you--you're not to leave this room.” He gave some instructions to the two policemen in an undertone and motioned Ransford and the others to follow him. “It strikes me,” he said, when they were outside in the narrow lane, “that what we've just heard is somewhere about the truth. And now we'll go on to Folliot's--there's a way to his house round here.” Mrs. Folliot was out, Sackville Bonham was still where Bryce had left him, at the golf-links, when the pursuers reached Folliot's. A parlourmaid directed them to the garden; a gardener volunteered the suggestion that his master might be in the old well-house and showed the way. And Folliot and Bryce saw them coming and looked at each other. “Glassdale!” exclaimed Bryce. “By heaven, man!--he's told on you!” Folliot was still staring through the window. He saw Ransford and Harker following the leading figures. And suddenly he turned to Bryce. “You've no hand in this?” he demanded. “I?” exclaimed Bryce. “I never knew till just now!” Folliot pointed to the door. “Go down!” he said. “Let 'em in, bid 'em come up! I'll--I'll settle with 'em. Go!” Bryce hurried down to the lower apartment. He was filled with excitement--an unusual thing for him--but in the midst of it, as he made for the outer door, it suddenly struck him that all his schemings and plottings were going for nothing. The truth was at hand, and it was not going to benefit him in the slightest degree. He was beaten. But that was no time for philosophic reflection; already those outside were beating at the door. He flung it open, and the foremost men started in surprise at the sight of him. But Bryce bent forward to Mitchington--anxious to play a part to the last. “He's upstairs!” he whispered. “Up there! He'll bluff it out if he can, but he's just admitted to me--” Mitchington thrust Bryce aside, almost roughly. “We know all about that!” he said. “I shall have a word or two for you later! Come on, now--” The men crowded up the stairway into Folliot's snuggery, Bryce, wondering at the inspector's words and manner, following closely behind him and the detective and Glassdale, who led the way. Folliot was standing in the middle of the room, one hand behind his back, the other in his pocket. And as the leading three entered the place he brought his concealed hand sharply round and presenting a revolver at Glassdale fired point-blank at him.