“Not much in that—­for the really important part of the story,” he continued.  “But Brake had other associations with Barthorpe—­a bit later.  He got to know—­got into close touch with a Barthorpe man who, about the time of Brake’s marriage, left Barthorpe end settled in London.  Brake and this man began to have some secret dealings together.  There was another man in with them, too—­a man who was a sort of partner of the Barthorpe man’s.  Brake had evidently a belief in these men, and he trusted them—­unfortunately for himself he sometimes trusted the bank’s money to them.  I know what happened—­he used to let them have money for short financial transactions—­to be refunded within a very brief space.  But —­he went to the fire too often, and got his fingers burned in the end.  The two men did him—­one of them in particular—­and cleared out.  He had to stand the racket.  He stood it—­to the tune of ten years’ penal servitude.  And, naturally, when he’d finished his time, he wanted to find those two men—­and began a long search for them.  Like to know the names of the men, Mr. Folliot?”

“You might mention ’em—­if you know ’em,” answered Folliot.

“The name of the particular one was Wraye—­Falkiner Wraye,” replied Bryce promptly.  “Of the other—­the man of lesser importance—­Flood.”

The two men looked quietly at each other for a full moment’s silence.  And it was Bryce who first spoke with a ring of confidence in his tone which showed that he knew he had the whip hand.

“Shall I tell you something about Falkiner Wraye?” he asked.  “I will!—­it’s deeply interesting.  Mr. Falkiner Wraye, after cheating and deceiving Brake, and leaving him to pay the penalty of his over-trustfulness, cleared out of England and carried his money-making talents to foreign parts.  He succeeded in doing well—­he would!—­and eventually he came back and married a rich widow and settled himself down in an out-of-the-world English town to grow roses.  You’re Falkiner Wraye, you know, Mr. Folliot!”

Bryce laughed as he made this direct accusation, and sitting forward in his chair, pointed first to Folliot’s face and then to his left hand.

“Falkiner Wraye,” he said, “had an unfortunate gun accident in his youth which marked him for life.  He lost the middle finger of his left hand, and he got a bad scar on his left jaw.  There they are, those marks!  Fortunate for you, Mr. Folliot, that the police don’t know all that I know, for if they did, those marks would have done for you days ago!” For a minute or two Folliot sat joggling his leg—­a bad sign in him of rising temper if Bryce had but known it.  While he remained silent he watched Bryce narrowly, and when he spoke, his voice was calm as ever.

“And what use do you intend to put your knowledge to, if one may ask?” he inquired, half sneeringly.  “You said just now that you’d no doubt that man Glassdale could be bought, and I’m inclining to think that you’re one of those men that have their price.  What is it?”