Mr. Reeder looked round the room. It was pleasantly furnished--not luxuriously so but pleasantly. Evidently a sitting-room. Except that the mantelboard had fallen or had been dragged on the floor, there was no sign of disorder. The hearth was littered with broken china pots and vases; the board itself was still held in position at one end by some attachment to the mantelpiece. That and the blue hearthrug before the fire, which was curiously stained. And there were other little splodges of darkness on the surface of the carpet, and a flower-pot was knocked down near the door. He saw a waste-paper basket and turned over its contents. Covers of little books apparently--there were five of them, but no contents. By the side of the fireplace was a dwarf bookcase. The books were dummies. He pulled one end of the case and it swung out, being hinged at the other end. “H’m!” said Mr. Reeder, and pushed the shelves back into their original position. There was a cap on the floor by the table and he picked this up. It was wet. This he examined, thrust into his pocket, and turned his attention to the girl. “How long have you been here, Miss----I think you had better tell me your name.” She was looking up at him; he saw her wet her dry lips. “Half an hour. I don’t know… it may be longer.” “Miss----?” he asked again. “Lynn--Margot Lynn.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Margot Lynn. And you’ve been here half-an-hour. Who else has been here?” “Nobody,” she said, springing to her feet. “What has happened? Did he--did they fight?” He put his hand on her shoulder gently, and pressed her down into the chair. “Did who fight whom?” asked Mr. Reeder. His English was always very good on these occasions. “Nobody has been here,” she said inconsequently. Mr. Reeder passed the question. “You came from----?” “I came from Bourne End station. I walked here. I often come that way. I am Mr. Wentford’s secretary.” “You walked here at nine o’clock because you’re Mr. Wentford’s secretary? That was a very odd thing to do.” She was searching his face fearfully. “Has anything happened? Are you a police detective? Has anything happened to Mr. Wentford? Tell me, tell me!” “He was expecting me: you knew that?” She nodded. Her breath was coming quickly. He thought she found breathing a painful process. “He told me--yes. I didn’t know what it was about. He wanted his lawyer here too. I think he was in some kind of trouble.” “When did you see him last?” She hesitated. “I spoke to him on the telephone--once, from London. I haven’t seen him for two days.” “And the person who was here?” asked Mr. Reeder after a pause. “There was nobody here! I swear there was nobody here!” She was frantic in her desire to convince him. “I’ve been here half-an-hour--waiting for him. I let myself in--I have a key. There it is.” She fumbled with trembling hands in her bag and produced a ring with two keys, one larger than the other.