Clive Desboyne laughed. “I’ve given you the impression that I’m terribly methodical,” he said, “and that isn’t quite exact.” He looked at the watch on his wrist. “It’s too late to ask you to breakfast.” “Breakfast is my favourite meal,” said Mr. Reeder gaily. Late as was the hour, he was standing before the polished mahogany door of 974, Memorial Mansions, Park Lane, at nine o’clock next morning. Mr. Desboyne was not so early a riser, and indeed had doubted whether the detective would keep his promise. Mr. Reeder was left standing in the hall whilst the servant went to inquire exactly how this strangely appearing gentleman should be disposed of. There was plenty to occupy Mr. Reeder’s attention during her absence, for the wide hall was hung with photographs which gave some indication of Desboyne’s wide sporting and theatrical interests. There was one interesting photograph, evidently an enlargement of a snapshot, showing the House of Commons in the background, which held Mr. Reeder’s attention, the more so as the photograph also showed the corner of Westminster Bridge across which motor-buses were moving. He was looking at this when Clive Desboyne joined him. “Here is a piece of detective work,” said Mr. Reeder triumphantly, pointing to the photograph. “I can tell you almost the week that picture was taken. Do you see those two omnibuses bearing the names of two plays? I happen to know there was only one week in the year when they were both running together.” “Indeed,” said Desboyne, apparently not as impressed by this piece of deduction as Mr. Reeder had expected. He led the way to the dining-room, and Reeder found by the side of his plate three foolscap sheets covered with writing. “I don’t know whether you’ll be able to read it,” said Desboyne, “but you’ll notice there one or two things that I forgot to tell you at our interview. I think on the whole they favour Southers, and I’m glad I made a note of them. For example, he said he had never seen Southers and only knew him by name. That in itself is rather curious.” “Very,” said Mr. Reeder. “Regarding that photograph in the hall--it must have been in May last year. I remember some years ago, by a lucky chance, I was able to establish the date on which a cheque was passed, as distinct from the date on which it was drawn, by the fact that the drawer had forgotten to sign one of his initials.” It was surprising how much Mr. Reeder, who was not as a rule a loquacious man, talked in the course of that meal. Mostly he talked about nothing. When Clive Desboyne led him to the murder Mr. Reeder skilfully edged away to less unpleasant topics.