Mr. Desboyne was in evening dress. He had driven down from his club, where he had bathed and changed after his long journey from the West of England, he explained. “I feel very ashamed to bother you at this hour of the night, Mr. Reeder,” he said with an apologetic smile, “but I feel rather like the villain of the piece, and my vanity has made me put matters right.” Mr. Reeder looked round helplessly for a chair, found one and pointed to it, and Desboyne drew it up to the table where the detective was sitting. He was a man of thirty-three or thirty-five, good-looking, with a very pleasant, open face and a pair of grey eyes that twinkled good-humouredly. “You saw the fight?… Gosh! that fellow could punch! I thoroughly deserved what I got, which certainly wasn’t very much. I was very rude to him. But then, like a fool, I went to the other extreme, and have got him a job in Singapore--of course he’ll take it--and I’m most anxious to get out of my offer.” Mr. Reeder looked at him in astonishment, and the young man laughed ruefully. “I suppose you think I’m a queer devil? Well, I am. I’m rather impetuous and I’ve got myself into a bit of a hole. And it’s a bigger hole than I knew, because I’m terribly fond of Anna Welford, and she’s terribly unfond of me! Southers is rather in the position of a successful rival, so that everything I say or do must be suspect. That’s the awful thing about it!” “Why do you wish to cancel the appointment?” asked Mr. Reeder. He could have added that, so far as he could recall, the appointment had already been cancelled. Clive Desboyne hesitated. “Well, it’s a difficult story to tell.” He rose from his seat and paced up and down the room, his hands thrust into his pockets, a frown on his face.