“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.