“I told him a lie,” said Mr. Reeder in a hushed tone, as though the enormity of his offence had temporarily overcome him. “I said that you had particularly asked me to come to-night. That was very wrong, and I am sorry. The truth is, Mr. Machfield, even the most illustrious of men have their little weaknesses; even the cleverest and most law-abiding their criminal instincts, and although I am neither illustrious nor clever, I have the frailties of my--er--humanity. Not, I would add, that it is criminal to play cards for money--far from it. I, as you probably know, or you may have heard, have a curiously distorted mind. I find my secret pleasures in such places as these.” Mr. Machfield was relieved, immensely relieved. He knew detectives who gambled, but somehow he had never associated Mr. J.G. Reeder with this peculiar weakness. “Why, certainly, we’re glad to see you, Mr. Reeder,” he said heartily. He was so glad indeed that he would have been happy to have given this odd-looking man the money wherewith to play. “You’ll have a drink on the house--not,” he added quickly, “that I am in any position to offer you a drink. I am a guest the same as yourself, but I know the proprietor would be annoyed if you came and went without having one.” “I never drink. A little barley water perhaps?” There was, unfortunately, no barley water in the establishment, but this, as Machfield explained, would be remedied in the future--even now if he wished. Mr. Reeder, however, would not hear of putting “the house” to trouble. He was anxious to join the company, and again by some extraordinary quality of good luck, he managed to insinuate himself so that he sat opposite the croupier. Somebody rose from their chair as he approached, and Mr. Reeder took the vacant seat. He might have taken a chair on the opposite side of the table, for at the sight of him a pallid Kingfether had whipped out his handkerchief and covered the lower part of his face as though he were suffering from a bad cold. Stealthily he rose from his seat and melted into the fringe of people standing behind the players. “Don’t let me drive you away, Mr. Kingfether,” said Reeder’s voice, and everybody heard him. The manager dropped back till he stood against the wall, a limp helpless figure, and there he remained through the scene that followed. Mr. Reeder had produced a bundle of Treasury notes which he counted with great care. It was not a big bundle. Mr. Machfield, watching, guessed he was in the ten-pound line of business, and certainly there was no more than that on the table. One by one those little notes of Reeder’s disappeared, until there was nothing left, and then a surprising thing happened. Mr. Reeder put his hand in his pocket, groped painfully and produced something which he covered with his hand. The croupier had raised his cards ready to deal--the game was _trente-et-quarante_--when the interruption came.