On the way back to town he grew more friendly to Clive Desboyne than he had ever been before, and certainly he was more communicative than he had been regarding the Attymar murder. “You’ve never seen a murder case at first hand----” “And I’m not very anxious to,” interrupted the other. “I applaud that sentiment. Young people are much too morbid,” said Mr. Reeder. “But this is a crime particularly interesting, because it was obviously planned by one who has studied the art of murder and the methods of the average criminal. He had studied it to such good purpose that he was satisfied that if a crime of this character were committed by a man of intelligence and acumen, he would--um--escape the consequence of his deed.” “And will he?” asked the other, interested. “No,” said Mr. Reeder, rubbing his nose. He thought for a long time. “I don’t think so. I think he will hang; I am pretty certain he will hang.” Another long pause. “And yet in a sense he was very clever. For example, he had to attract the attention of the policeman on the beat and establish the fact that a murder had been committed. He left open the wicket gate on the--um--wharf, and placed a lantern on the ground and another within the open door of his little house, so that the policeman, even if he had been entirely devoid of curiosity, could not fail to investigate.” Clive Desboyne frowned. “Upon my life I don’t know who is murdered! It can’t be Attymar, because you saw him to-day; and it can’t possibly be Ligsey, because, according to your statement, he is alive. Why did Johnny Southers go there?” “Because he’d been offered a job, a partnership with Attymar. Attymar had two or three barges, and with vigorous management it looked as if his business might grow into a more important concern. Southers didn’t even know that this man Attymar was the type of creature he was. An appointment was made on the telephone; Southers attended; he interviewed Attymar or somebody in the dark, during which time I gather he was sprinkled with blood--whose blood, we shall discover. There was a similar case in France in eighteen-forty-seven. Madame Puyeres…” He gave the history of the Puyeres case at length. “That was our friend’s cleverness, the blood-sprinkling, the lantern-placing, the removal of Mr.--um--I forget his name for the moment, the theatrical agent of unsavoury reputation. But he made one supreme error. You know the house--no, of course, you’ve never been there.” “Which house?” asked Clive curiously. “Attymar’s house. It’s little more than a weighing shed. You haven’t been there? No, I see you haven’t. If you would like a little lecture, or a little demonstration of criminal error, I would like to show you at first-hand.” “Will it save Johnny Southers--this mistake?” asked Desboyne curiously. Mr. Reeder nodded. “Nothing is more certain. How amazing are the--um--vagaries of the human mind! How peculiar are the paths into which--um--vanity leads us!”