.

THE OLD WELL HOUSE.
When Bryce came hurrying up to him, Folliot was standing at his garden door with his hands thrust under his coat-tails--the very picture of a benevolent, leisured gentleman who has nothing to do and is disposed to give his time to anybody.

He glanced at Bryce as he had glanced at Glassdale--over the tops of his spectacles, and the glance had no more than mild inquiry in it.

But if Bryce had been less excited, he would have seen that Folliot, as he beckoned him inside the garden, swept a sharp look over the Close and ascertained that there was no one about, that Bryce's entrance was unobserved.

Save for a child or two, playing under the tall elms near one of the gates, and for a clerical figure that stalked a path in the far distance, the Close was empty of life.
And there was no one about, either, in that part of Folliot's big garden.
"I want a bit of talk with you," said Bryce as Folliot closed the door and turned down a side-path to a still more retired region.