ith much worn flags of limestone, evidently set down in a long dead age
and now polished to marble-like smoothness. In its midst, set flush with
the floor, was what was evidently a trap-door, furnished with a heavy
iron ring. To this Folliot pointed, with a glance of significant
interest.

"Deepest well in all Wrychester under that," he remarked. "You'd never
think it--it's a hundred feet deep--and more! Dry now--water gave
out some years ago. Some people would have pulled this old well-house
down--but not me! I did better--I turned it to good account." He raised
a hand and pointed upward to an obviously modern ceiling of strong oak
timbers. "Had that put in," he continued, "and turned the top of the
building into a little snuggery. Come up!"

He led the way to a flight of steps in one corner of the lower room,
pushed open a door at their head, and showed his companion into a small
apartment arranged and furnished in something closely approaching
to luxury. The walls were hung with thick fabrics; the carpeting was
equally thick; there were pictures, books, and curiosities; the two or
three chairs were deep and big enough to lie down in; the two windows
commanded pleasant views of the Cathedral towers on one side and of the
Close on the other.

"Nice little place to be alone in, d'ye see?" said Folliot. "Cool in
summer--warm in winter--modern fire-grate, you notice. Come here when I
want to do a bit of quiet thinking, what?"

"Good place for that--certainly," agreed Bryce.

Folliot pointed his visitor to one of the big chairs and turning to a
cabinet brought out some glasses, a syphon of soda-water, and a heavy
cut-glass decanter. He nodded at a box of cigars which lay open on a
table at Bryce's elbow as he began to mix a couple of drinks.

"Help yourself," he said. "Good stuff, those."

Not until he had given Bryce a drink, and had carried his own glass to
another easy chair did Folliot refer to any reason for Bryce's visit.
But once settled down, he looked at him speculatively.

"What did you want to see me about?" he asked.

Bryce, who had lighted a cigar, looked across its smoke at the
imperturbable face opposite.

"You've just had Glassdale here," he observed quietly. "I saw him leave
you."

Folliot nodded--without any change of expression.

"Aye, doctor," he said. "And--what do you know about Glassdale, now?"

Bryce, who would have cheerfully hobnobbed with a man whom he was about
to conduct to the