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.