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.
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.