“I must stay, I’m afraid, unless you have any very great objection.” “What’s the idea of waiting?” asked Gaylor in surprise. Mr. Reeder looked from side to side as though he were seeking an answer. “I have a theory--an absurd one, of course--but I believe the murderers will come back. And honestly I don’t think your policeman would be of much use, unless you were inclined to give the poor fellow the lethal weapon necessary to defend himself.” Gaylor sat down squarely before him, his large gloved hands on his knees. “Tell papa,” he said. Mr. Reeder looked at him pathetically. “There is nothing to tell, my dear Mr. Gaylor; merely suspicion, bred, as I said, in my peculiarly morbid mind, having perhaps no foundation in fact. Those two cards, for example--that was a stupid piece of bravado. But it has happened before. You remember the Teignmouth case, and the Lavender Hill case, with the man with the slashed chest? I think they must get these ideas out of books,” he said, bending over to stir the embers of the fire. “The craze for that kind of literature must necessarily produce its reaction.” Gaylor took the cards from his pockets and examined them. “A bit of tomfoolery,” was his verdict. Mr. Reeder sighed and shook his head at the fire. “Murderers as a rule have no sense of humour. They are excitable people, frightened people, but they are never comic people.” He walked to the door and pulled it open. Snow had ceased to fall. He came back. “Where is the policeman you propose leaving on duty?” he asked. “I’ll find one,” said Gaylor. “There are half-a-dozen within call. A whistle will bring one along.” Mr. Reeder looked at him thoughtfully. “I don’t think I should. Let us wait until daylight--or perhaps you wish to go? I don’t think anybody would harm you. I rather fancy they would be glad to see the back of you.” “Harm me?” said Gaylor indignantly, but Reeder took no notice of the interruption. “My own idea is that I should brew a dish of tea, and possibly fry a few eggs. I am a little hungry.” Gaylor walked to the door and frowned out into the darkness. He had worked with Reeder before, and was too wise a man to reject the advice summarily. Besides, if Reeder was entering or had entered the Public Prosecutor’s Department, he would occupy a rank equivalent to superintendent. “I’m all for eggs,” said Gaylor, and bolted the outer door. The older man disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a kettle, which he placed upon the fire, went out again and returned with a frying-pan. “Do you ever take your hat off?” asked Gaylor curiously. Mr. Reeder did not turn his head, but shook the pan gently to ensure an even distribution of the boiling fat. “Very rarely,” he said. “On Christmas Days sometimes.” And then Gaylor asked a fatuous question; at least, it sounded fatuous to him, and yet subconsciously he felt that the other might supply an immediate and dramatic answer. “Who killed Wentford?”