The man who sat in one corner of the lounge, clasping his knees, was… Mr. Reeder puzzled for a word. Theatrical, of course. That red silk robe, that Mephistophelian cap, and the long black mask with the lace fringe that even hid the speaker’s chin. His hands were covered with jewelled rings which scintillated in the feeble light overhead. Mr. Reeder could not very well move; he was handcuffed, his legs were strapped painfully together, and in his mouth was a piece of wood lightly tied behind his ears. It was not painful, but it could be, he realized. At any rate he was spared the necessity of replying to the exultant man who sat at the other end of the settee. “… Did you hear what I said, my master of mystery?” He spoke with a slightly foreign accent, this man in the red robe. “You are so clever, and yet I am more clever, eh? All of it I planned out of my mind. The glittering silver pistol on the floor--that was the only way I could get you to stoop and bring your head into the gas. It was a very heavy gas which does not easily escape, but I was afraid you might have dropped a cigarette, and that would have betrayed everything. If you had waited a little time the gas would have rolled out of the open door; but no, you must have the pistol, so you stooped and picked it up, and _voila!_” His hands glittered dazzlingly. “You are used to criminals of the stupid kind,” he went on. “For the first time, my Reeder, you meet one who has planned everything step by step. Pardon me.” He stepped down to the floor, leaned forward and untied the gag. “I find it difficult if conversation is one-sided,” he said pleasantly. “If you make a fuss I shall shoot you and that will be the end. At present I desire that you should know everything. You know me?” “I’m afraid I haven’t that pleasure,” said Mr. Reeder, and the man chuckled. “If you had lived, I would have been your chief case, your _chef d’œuvre_, the one man of your acquaintance who could plan murder and--what is the expression?--get away with it! Do you know where you are?” “I’m on the _Zaira_,” said Mr. Reeder. “Do you know who is her owner?” “She is owned by Mr. Clive Desboyne.” The man chuckled at this. “Poor fellow! The lovesick one, eh? For him this boat is--where do you think?--at Twickenham, for its spring repairs. He told you perhaps he had been mad enough to let it for two months? No, he did not tell you? Ah, that is interesting. Perhaps he forgot.” Mr. Reeder nodded slowly. “Now tell me, my friend--my time is very short and I cannot waste it here with you--do you know who killed Attymar?” “You are Attymar,” said Mr. Reeder, and was rewarded by a shrill chuckle of delighted laughter. “So clever, after all! It is a good thing I have you, eh? Otherwise”--he shrugged his shoulders lightly. “That is the very best joke--I am Attymar! Do I speak like him, yes? Possibly--who knows?” He slipped from his seat and came stealthily towards Reeder and fixed the gag a little tighter.