“Well, as long as you know all that, there’s a common basis and a common starting-point,” remarked Harker, “so I’ll begin at Brake’s trial. It was I who arrested Brake. There was no trouble, no bother. He’d been taken unawares, by an inspector of the bank. He’d a considerable deficiency—couldn’t make it good—couldn’t or wouldn’t explain except by half-sullen hints that he’d been cruelly deceived. There was no defence—couldn’t be. His counsel said that he could—”
“I’ve read the account of the trial,” interrupted Bryce.
“All right—then you know as much as I can tell you on that point,” said Harker. “He got, as you say, ten years. I saw him just before he was removed and asked him if there was anything I could do for him about his wife and children. I’d never seen them—I arrested him at the bank, and, of course, he was never out of custody after that. He answered in a queer, curt way that his wife and children were being looked after. I heard, incidentally, that his wife had left home, or was from home—there was something mysterious about it—either as soon as he was arrested or before. Anyway, he said nothing, and from that moment I never set eyes on him again until I met him in the street here in Wrychester, the other night, when he came to the Mitre. I knew him at once—and he knew me. We met under one of those big standard lamps in the Market Place—I was following my usual practice of having an evening walk, last thing before going to bed. And we stopped and stared at each other. Then he came forward with his hand out, and we shook hands. ‘This is an odd thing!’ he said. ‘You’re the very man I wanted to find! Come somewhere, where it’s quiet, and let me have a word with you.’ So—I brought him here.”
Bryce was all attention now—for once he was devoting all his faculties to tense and absorbed concentration on what another man could tell, leaving reflections and conclusions on what he heard until all had been told.
“I brought him here,” repeated Harker. “I told him I’d been retired and was living here, as he saw, alone. I asked him no questions about himself—I could see he was a well-dressed, apparently well-to-do man. And presently he began to tell me about himself. He said that after he’d finished his term he left England and for some time travelled in Canada and the United States, and had gone then—on to New Zealand and afterwards to Australia, where he’d settled down and begun speculating in wool. I said I hoped he’d done well. Yes, he said, he’d done very nicely—and then he gave me a quiet dig in the ribs. ‘I’ll tell you one thing I’ve done, Harker,’ he said. ‘You were very polite and considerate to me when I’d my trouble, so I don’t mind telling you. I paid the bank every penny of that money they lost through my foolishness at that time—every penny, four years ago, with interest, and I’ve got their receipt.’ ‘Delighted to hear it, Mr.—Is it the same name still?’ I said. ‘My name ever since I left England,’ he said, giving me a look, ‘is Braden—John Braden.’ ‘Yes,’ he went on, ‘I paid ’em—though I never had one penny of the money I was fool enough to take for the time being—not one halfpenny!’ ‘Who had it, Mr. Braden?’ I asked him, thinking that he’d perhaps tell after all that time. ‘Never mind, my lad!’ he answered. ‘It’ll come out—yet. Never mind that, now. I’ll tell you why I wanted to see you. The fact is, I’ve only been a few hours in England, so to speak, but I’d thought of you, and wondered where I could get hold of you—you’re the only man of your profession I ever met, you see,’ he added, with a laugh. ‘And I want a bit of help in that way.’ ‘Well, Mr. Braden,’ I said, ‘I’ve retired, but if it’s an easy job—’ ‘It’s one you can do, easy enough,’ he said. ‘It’s just this—I met a man in Australia who’s extremely anxious to get some news of another man, named Falkiner Wraye, who hails from Barthorpe, in Leicestershire. I promised to make inquiries for him. Now, I have strong reasons why I don’t want to go near Barthorpe—Barthorpe has unpleasant memories and associations for me, and I don’t want to be seen there. But this thing’s got to be personal investigation—will you go here, for me? I’ll make it worth your while. All you’ve got to do,’ he went on, ‘is to go there—see the police authorities, town officials, anybody that knows the place, and ask them if they can tell you anything of one Falkiner Wraye, who was at one time a small estate agent in Barthorpe, left the place about seventeen years ago—maybe eighteen—and is believed to have recently gone back to the neighbourhood. That’s all. Get what information you can, and write it to me, care of my bankers in London. Give me a sheet of paper and I’ll put down particulars for you.’ ”
Harker paused at this point and nodded his head at an old bureau which stood in a corner of his room.
“The sheet of paper’s there,” he said. “It’s got on it, in his writing, a brief memorandum of what he wanted and the address of his bankers. When he’d given it to me, he put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a purse in which I could see he was carrying plenty of money. He took out some notes. ‘Here’s five-and-twenty pounds on account, Harker,’ he said. ‘You might have to spend a bit. Don’t be afraid—plenty more
