“But how do you know they’re diaries?” demanded the police officer testily. “Because the word ‘diary’ is printed on the inside covers,” said Mr. Reeder, more gently than ever. This proved to be the case, though the printing had been overlooked. Mr. Reeder had not overlooked it; he had not even overlooked the two scraps of burnt paper on the hearth, all that remained of those diaries. “There is a safe let into the wall behind that bookcase.” He pointed. “It may or may not be full of clues. I should imagine it is not. But I shouldn’t touch it if I were you, sergeant,” he said hastily, “not without gloves. Those detestable fellows from Scotland Yard will be here eventually, and they’ll be ever so rude if they photograph a finger-print and find it is yours.” Gaylor of the Yard came at half past two. He had been brought out of his bed through a blinding snowstorm and along a road that was thoroughly vile. The young lady had gone home. Mr. Reeder was sitting meditatively before the fire which he had made up, smoking the cheapest kind of cigarette. “Is the body here?” Mr. Reeder shook his head. “Have they found that mounted policeman, Verity?” Again Mr. Reeder signalled a negative. “They found his horse. He was discovered on the Beaconsfield Road. It had bloodstains on the saddle.” “Bloodstains?” said the startled officer. “Stains of blood,” explained Mr. Reeder. He was staring into the fire, the cigarette drooping limply from his mouth, on his face an air of unsettled melancholy; he did not even turn his head to address Inspector Gaylor. “The young lady has gone home, as I said. The local constabulary gave you particulars of the lady, of course. She acted as secretary to the late Mr. Wentford, and he appears to have been very fond of her, since he has left his fortune as to two-thirds to the young lady and one-third to his sister. There is no money in the house as far as can be ascertained, but he banks with the Great Central Bank, Beaconsfield branch.” Reeder fumbled in his pocket. “Here are the two aces.” “The two what?” asked the puzzled inspector. “The two aces.” Mr. Reeder passed the playing cards over his shoulder, his eyes still upon the fire. “The ace of diamonds, and I believe the ace of hearts--I am not very well acquainted with either.” “Where did you get these?” The other explained, and he heard Gaylor’s exasperated chuckle. “What’s this, a magazine story murder?” he asked contemptuously. “I seldom read magazine stories,” said Mr. Reeder between yawns, “but these cards were put up after the murder.” The detective examined the aces interestedly. “Why are you so sure of that--why shouldn’t they have been put up before?” J.G. groaned at his scepticism, and, reaching out, took a pack of cards from a little table.