“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.