“I am afraid it doesn’t surprise me,” said Mr. Reeder apologetically. “You see, I’ve been examining the gentleman’s bank book. By the way, here are the numbers of notes drawn from Mr. Wentford’s account.” He handed over a slip of paper. “Six hundred pounds is a lot of money,” said Gaylor. “I’ll ’phone these through. Well, what else did you find in the bank book?” “I observed,” said Mr. Reeder, “though I did not emphasize the fact, that all the money he paid was in French bank notes. Number two is----?” The inspector extracted a sheet of headed paper from one heap. Written in pencil was what was evidently a memorandum from somebody who signed himself “D.H. Hartford.” “I have found that the man who is employing a private detective to find you is George McKay of Sennet House, Marlow. I don’t know what his intentions are, but they’re not pleasant. There is nothing to worry about: he is employing one of the most incompetent private detectives in the business.” “Extraordinary!” said Mr. Reeder, and coughed. “The first thing to do is to find Hartford----” began Gaylor. “He is in Australia,” Mr. Reeder interrupted. “At the time that letter was written his office address was 327, Lambs Buildings. He became bankrupt and left the country hurriedly.” “How do you know?” asked Gaylor, astonished. “Because I--um--was the incompetent private detective engaged to find Mr. Lynn, or, as he called himself, Mr. Wentford. And I did not find him,” said Mr. Reeder. “Why did McKay wish to find this man?” “He owed him money. I know no more than that. The search fell off because--um--Mr. McKay owed me money. One has to live.” “Then you knew about Wentford?” Mr. Reeder took counsel with himself. “Um--yes. I recognized him last night--I once had a photograph of him. I thought it was very odd. I also--er--drove over to Marlow and made enquiries. Mr. McKay--Mr. George McKay did not leave his house last night, and at the moment the murder was committed was entertaining the--um--vicar to dinner.” “You’re a killjoy,” he said, and Mr. Reeder sighed heavily. “I’m going to have these developed.” He held up a little film pack. “I found them in the old man’s bedroom. I don’t suppose they’ll tell us anything.” “I fancy they will be very instructive,” said Mr. Reeder, “especially if you are interested in natural history. There will also be a picture of Mr. Wentford or Lynn, with his arm about the shoulder of his niece.” Gaylor sat down. “Are you pulling my leg?” he demanded. “Heaven forbid!” answered Mr. Reeder piously. Gaylor got up and stood squarely before him. “What do you know about these murders, Reeder?” he challenged. Mr. Reeder spread his hands wide. His glasses, set askew, slipped a little farther down his nose; he was not a very imposing figure.