“Mr. Folliot!” interrupted Mitchington, pointing to Glassdale.  “So he’s just told us; he’s identified him as Wraye.  But the other—­who’s he, doctor?”

Ransford glanced at Glassdale as if he wished to question him, but instead he answered Mitchington’s question.

“The other man,” he said, “the man Flood, is also a well-known man to you.  Fladgate!”

Mitchington started, evidently more astonished than by the first news.

“What!” he exclaimed.  “The verger!  You don’t say!”

“Do you remember,” continued Ransford, “that Folliot got Fladgate his appointment as verger not so very long after he himself came here?  He did, anyway, and Fladgate is Flood.  We’ve traced everything through Flood.  Wraye has been a difficult man to trace, because of his residence abroad for a long time and his change of name, and so on, and it was only recently that my agents struck on a line through Flood.  But there’s the fact.  And the probability is that when Braden came here he recognized and was recognized by these two, and that one or other of them is responsible for his death and for Collishaw’s too.  Circumstantial evidence, all of it, no doubt, but irresistible!  Now, what do you propose to do?”

Mitchington considered matters for a moment.

“Fladgate first, certainly,” he said.  “He lives close by here; we’ll go round to his cottage.  If he sees he’s in a tight place he may let things out.  Let’s go there at once.”

He led the whole party out of the station and down the High Street until they came to a narrow lane of little houses which ran towards the Close.  At its entrance a policeman was walking his beat.  Mitchington stopped to exchange a few words with him.

“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.