it was
only recently that my agents struck on a line through Flood. But
there's the fact. And the probability is that when Braden came here he
recognized and was recognized by these two, and that one or other
of them is responsible for his death and for Collishaw's too.
Circumstantial evidence, all of it, no doubt, but irresistible! Now,
what do you propose to do?"

Mitchington considered matters for a moment.

"Fladgate first, certainly," he said. "He lives close by here; we'll go
round to his cottage. If he sees he's in a tight place he may let things
out. Let's go there at once."

He led the whole party out of the station and down the High Street until
they came to a narrow lane of little houses which ran towards the Close.
At its entrance a policeman was walking his beat. Mitchington stopped to
exchange a few words with him.

"This man Fladgate," he said, rejoining the others, "lives alone--fifth
cottage down here. He'll be about having his tea; we shall take him by
surprise." Presently the group stood around a door at which Mitchington
knocked gently, and it was on their grave and watchful faces that a
tall, clean-shaven, very solemn-looking man gazed in astonishment as
he opened the door, and started back. He went white to the lips and his
hand fell trembling from the latch as Mitchington strode in and the rest
crowded behind.

"Now then, Fladgate!" said Mitchington, going straight to the point and
watching his man narrowly, while the detective approached him closely on
the other side. "I want you and a word with you at once. Your real name
is Flood! What have you to say to that? And--it's no use beating about
the bush--what have you to say about this Braden affair, and your share
with Folliot in it, whose real name is Wraye. It's all come out about
the two of you. If you've anything to say, you'd better say it."

The verger, whose black gown lay thrown across the back of a chair,
looked from one face to another with frightened eyes. It was very
evident that the suddenness of the descent had completely unnerved him.
Ransford's practised eyes saw that he was on the verge of a collapse.

"Give him time, Mitchington," he said. "Pull yourself together,"
he added, turning to the man. "Don't be frightened; answer these
questions!"

"For God's sake, gentlemen!" grasped the verger. "What--what is it? What
am I to answer? Before God, I'm as innocent as--as any of you--about Mr.
Brake's death! Upon my soul and hon