He opened a door leading to the bedroom. Here was a cupboard--it was little bigger. The walls and floor were covered with white tiles, as also was the back of the door. From the ceiling projected a large nozzle, and in one of the walls were two taps. “How’s that for luxury? Shower bath--hot and cold water. Doesn’t that make you laugh?” “Nothing makes me laugh except the detectives in pictures,” said Mr. Reeder calmly. “Do you ever go to the pictures, Gaylor?” The inspector admitted that occasionally he did. “I like to see detectives in comic films, because they always carry large magnifying glasses. Do they make you laugh?” “They do,” admitted Mr. Gaylor, with a contemptuous and reminiscent smile. “Then get ready to howl,” said Mr. Reeder, and from his pocket took the largest reading glass that Gaylor had ever seen. Under the astonished eyes of the detective Reeder went down on his knees in the approved fashion, and began carefully to scrutinize the floor. Inch by inch he covered, stopping now and again to pick up something invisible to the Scotland Yard man, and placed it in an envelope which he had also taken from his pocket. “Cigar-ash?” asked Gaylor sardonically. “Almost,” said Mr. Reeder. He went on with his search, then suddenly he sat back on his heels, his eyes ablaze, and held up a tiny piece of silver paper, less than a quarter of an inch square. Gaylor looked down more closely. “Oh, it is a cigarette you’re looking for?” But Mr. Reeder was oblivious to all sarcasm. Inside the silver was a scrap of transparent paper, so thin that it seemed part of the tinsel. Very carefully, however, he separated the one from the other, touched its surface and examined his finger-tips. “Where’s the fireplace?” he asked suddenly. “There’s a fireplace in the kitchen--that’s the only one.” Mr. Reeder hurried downstairs and examined this small apartment. There were ashes in the grate, but it was impossible to tell what had been burnt. “I should like to say,” said Gaylor, “that your efforts are wasted, for we’ve got enough in the diary to hang Southers twice over. Only I suspect you when you do things unnecessarily.” “The diary?” Mr. Reeder looked up. “Yes, Attymar’s.” “So he kept a diary, did he?” Mr. Reeder was quite amused. “I should have thought he would, if I had thought about it at all.” Then he frowned. “Not an ordinary diary, of course? Just an exercise book. It begins--let me see--shall we say two weeks ago, or three weeks?” Gaylor gazed at him in amazement. “Mason told you?” “No, he didn’t tell me anything, partly because he hasn’t spoken to me. But, of course, it would be in a sort of exercise book. An ordinary printed diary that began on the first of January would be unthinkable. This case is getting so fascinating that I can hardly stop laughing!” He was not laughing; he was very serious indeed, as he stood in the untidy yard before the little house and threw his keen glance across its littered surface.