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.

“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?”