The letter was typewritten and ran: “Dear Sir, I happen to know your private address because Miss Welford pointed it out to me one evening when I was visiting her. I am in rather a delicate position, and I am wondering whether I could employ your services professionally to extricate myself? Since the matter affects Southers, whom I think you know (I have learned since that you were a witness of a certain disgraceful episode, for which I was probably more to blame than he), I thought you might be willing to receive me. I want you to undertake this task on a professional basis and charge me your usual fees. I shall be out of town until Friday night, but there is no immediate urgency. If I could call some time after ten on Friday I should be eternally grateful. “Yours, etc.” Mr. Reeder’s first inclination was to take out a sheet of paper and write a firm but polite refusal to see Mr. Desboyne, however stringent might be his predicament. He had written the first three words when one of those curious impulses which came to him at times, and which so often urged him to the right course, stayed his hand. Instead, he took a telegraph form and sent a laconic message agreeing to the young man’s suggestion. The day of the appointment was a busy one for Mr. Reeder. Scotland Yard had made two important discoveries--a small garage in the north of London, which contained nearly 400 lbs. of saccharine, had been raided in the early hours of the morning, and this was followed up by a second raid in a West End mansion flat, where large quantities of heroin and cocaine were unearthed by the police. “It looks as though we’ve found one of the principal distributing agents,” said Gaylor. “We’ve got the barge under observation, and we’re taking the chance of arresting Attymar as soon as he steps on board.” “Where is it?” “Off Greenwich,” said Gaylor. Mr. Reeder dived down into his pocket and produced an envelope. The paper was grimy, the address was a scrawl. He took from this as dingy a letter and laid it on the table before Gaylor. “Dear Sir, I can give you informacion. I will call at your howse on Sunnday morning. From a Frend.” Gaylor inspected the envelope. The date-stamp was “Greenwich.” “He had some doubt about sending it at all: the flap has been opened and closed again--I presume this is Ligsey; his real name is William Liggs. He’s had no convictions, but he hasn’t been above suspicion. You’ll see him?” “If he comes,” said Mr. Reeder. “So many of these gentlemen who undertake to supply information think better of it at the last moment.” “It may be too late,” said Gaylor. It was at the end of a very heavy and tiring day that Mr. Reeder went back to his house, forgetting the appointment he had so rashly made. He had hardly got into the house before the bell rang, and it was then that he realized, with bitter regret, that he had robbed himself of an hour’s sleep which was badly needed.