“You remember the bedroom above the one where the murder took place, or where we think it was committed? You probably took a photograph.” “I’ll get it right away,” said Gaylor, and left the room. He was back with a sheaf of photographic enlargements which he laid on the table. “There it is,” said Reeder, and pointed. “The clock? Yes, I noticed that.” “Naturally,” said Reeder. “But most people who go to sea, or even bargees, have it put there.” The little clock was fastened to the ceiling, immediately over the bedstead, so that anybody lying in bed could look up and tell the time. It had luminous hands, Reeder had noticed. “I want you to have that clock removed and the ceiling plastered. I want you to take away the bed and put a table and chair there. In two days I think I will make the further prosecution of young Southers unnecessary.” “You can do as you like,” said Mason. “You’re well in the case now, Mr. Reeder. I’ve put out a special call to get Ligsey, and the river police are searching all the reaches.” “The river police are more likely to get Mr. Ligsey than any other section of the Metropolitan Police Force,” replied Reeder. Big Ben was striking eleven as he mounted a tramcar that carried him from Westminster Bridge to the end of his road. In the days, and particularly the nights, when Mr. Reeder was heavily engaged in his hazardous occupation, his housekeeper remained on duty until he was ready to go to bed. She met him at the door now with a telephone message. “Mr. Gaylor called up, sir. He says he is sending you a little iron box which he wishes you to examine, and will you be careful not to touch it with your fingers because of the prince? He didn’t say which prince it was.” “I think I know His Highness,” said Mr. Reeder, who was a little ruffled that Gaylor should find it necessary to warn him against over-smearing fingerprints. “Has the box arrived?” “Ten minutes ago, sir.” “When did Mr. Gaylor telephone?” She was rather vague as to this; thought it might have been half-an-hour before. In that case, thought Reeder, it must have been immediately after he left the Yard, and the box must have come on by cyclist messenger. He found it on his table in a service envelope, and took it out: a heavy, oblong box, about six inches long and three inches square. Pen-printed on the lid, which was tacked down, were the words: “Mr. Reeder to see and return. Room 75, New Scotland Yard.” Reeder weighed the package in his hand. Some people remember by smell, some trust to their eyesight, and the recollections of vision. Mr. Reeder had a remarkable sense of weight--and he remembered something that weighed just as heavy as this. He put the package carefully on the table and rang through to Scotland Yard. Gaylor had gone. He tried him at his house, but he had not arrived.