Somebody was coming up the path. They could hear voices, and, looking through the curtain, he saw a string of lanterns and went out to meet a local sergeant and two men. Behind them was Mr. Enward. Reeder wondered what had become of Henry. Possibly he had been lost in the snow. The thought interested him. “This is Mr. Reeder.” Enward’s voice was shrill. “Did you telephone?” “Yes, I telephoned. We have a young lady here--Mr. Wentford’s niece.” Enward repeated the words, surprised. “His niece here? Really? I knew he had a niece. In fact----” He coughed. It was an indelicate moment to speak of legacies. “She’ll be able to throw a light on this business,” said the sergeant, more practical and less delicate. “She could throw no light on any business,” said Mr. Reeder, very firmly for him. “She was not here when the crime was committed--in fact, she arrived some time after. She has a key which admitted her. Miss Lynn acts as her uncle’s secretary, all of which facts, I think, gentlemen, you should know.” The sergeant was not quite sure about the propriety of noticing Mr. Reeder. To him he was almost a civilian, a man without authority, and his presence was therefore irregular. Nevertheless, some distant echo of J.G. Reeder’s fame had penetrated into Buckinghamshire. The police officer seemed to remember that Mr. Reeder either occupied or was about to occupy a semi-official position remotely or nearly associated with police affairs. If he had been a little clearer on the subject he would also have been more definite in his attitude. Since he was not so sure, it was expedient, until Mr. Reeder’s position became established, to ignore his presence--a peculiarly difficult course to follow when an officially absent person is standing at your elbow, murmuring flat contradictions of your vital theories. “Perhaps you will tell me why _you_ are here, sir?” said the sergeant with a certain truculence. Mr. Reeder felt in his pocket, took out a large leather case and laid it carefully on the table, first dusting the table with the side of his hand. This he unfolded, and took out, with exasperating deliberation, a thick pad of telegrams. He fixed his glasses and examined the telegrams one by one, reading each through. At last he shook one clear and handed it to the officer. It ran: “Wish to consult with you to-night on very important matter. Call me Woburn Green 971. Very urgent. Wentford.” “You’re a private detective, Mr. Reeder?” “More intimate than private,” murmured that gentleman. “In these days of publicity one has little more than the privacy of a goldfish in his crystal habitation.” The sergeant saw something in the wastepaper basket and pulled it out. It was a small loose-leafed book. There was another, indeed many. He piled five on the table; but they were merely the covers and nothing more. “Diaries,” said Mr. Reeder gently. “You will observe that each one is dingier than the other.”