“He wasn’t here when I came in. I--I think he must have gone to town. He is very--peculiar.” Mr. J.G. Reeder put his hand in his pocket, took out two playing cards and laid them on the table. “Why did he have those pinned to his door?” She looked at him round-eyed. “Pinned to his door?” “The outer door,” said Mr. Reeder, “or, as he would call it, the street door.” She shook her head. “I’ve never seen them before. He is not the kind of man to put up things like that. He is very retiring and hates drawing attention to himself.” “He was very retiring,” repeated Mr. Reeder, “and hated drawing attention to himself.” CHAPTER IV Something in his tone emphasized the tense he used. She shrank back. “Was?” Her voice was a whisper. “He’s not dead… oh, my God! he’s not dead?” Mr. Reeder smoothed his chin. “Yes, I’m afraid--um--he is dead.” She clutched the edge of the table for support. Mr. Reeder had never seen such horror, such despair in a human face before. “Was it… an accident--or--or----” “You’re trying to say ‘murder’,” said Reeder gently. “Yes, I’m very much afraid it was murder.” He caught her in his arms as she fell, and, laying her on the sofa, went in search of water. The taps were frozen, but he found some water in a kettle, and, filling a glass with this, he returned to sprinkle it on her face, having a vague idea that something of the sort was necessary; but he found her sitting up, her face in her hands. “Lie down, my dear, and keep quiet,” said Mr. Reeder, and she obeyed meekly. He looked round the room. The thing that struck him anew was the revolver which hung on the wall near the right-hand side of the fireplace just above the bookcase. It was placed to the hand of anybody who sat with his back to the window. Behind the armchair was a screen, and, tapping it, Mr. Reeder discovered that it was of sheet iron. He went outside to look at the door, turning on the hall light. It was a very thick door, and the inside was made of quarter-inch steel plate, screwed firmly to the wood. Leading from the kitchen was the bedroom, evidently Wentford’s. The only light here was admitted from an oblong window near the ceiling. There were no other windows, and about the narrow window was a stout steel cage. On the wall by the bed hung a second pistol. He found a third weapon in the kitchen, and, behind a coat hanging in the hall, a fourth. The cottage was a square box of concrete. The roof, as he afterwards learned, was tiled over sheet iron, and, except for the window through which he had squeezed, there was none by which ingress could be had. He was puzzled why this man, who evidently feared attack, had left any window so large as that through which he had come. He afterwards found the broken wire which must have set an alarm bell ringing when the window was opened.