“At an hotel--he was a bachelor. No, he didn’t tell anybody there--just said he was going away for a day or two.” “Left his clothes behind and did not even pay his bill,” murmured Mr. Reeder. Miss Gillette was surprised. “You know all about it, then?” “My queer mind,” he said simply. There was a tap at the outer door. “You had better see who that is,” said Mr. Reeder. She went to the door and opened it. Standing on the mat outside was a clergyman, wearing a long black overcoat which reached to his heels. He looked at her dubiously. “Is this Mr. Reeder’s office--the detective?” he asked. She nodded, regarding the unexpected visitor with interest. He was a man of fifty, with greying hair. A mild, rather pallid man, who seemed to be ill at ease, for the fingers that gripped his umbrella, which he held about its middle as though he were all ready to signal a cab, clasped and unclasped in his agitation. He looked at Mr. Reeder helplessly. Mr. Reeder, for his part, twiddled his thumbs and gazed at the visitor solemnly. It almost seemed that he was smitten dumb by the uniform of his visitor’s rectitude. “Won’t you sit down, please?” There was something of the churchwarden in Mr. Reeder’s benevolent gesture. “The matter I wish to speak about--well, I hardly know how to begin,” said the clergyman. Here Mr. Reeder could not help him. It was on his tongue to offer the conventional suggestion that the best way to begin any story was to tell the unvarnished truth. Somehow this hardly seemed a delicate thing to say to a man of the cloth, so he said nothing. “It concerns a man named Ralph--the merest acquaintance of mine… hardly that. I had corresponded with him on certain matters pertaining to the higher criticism. But I can hardly remember what points he raised or how I dealt with them. I never keep correspondence, not because I am unbusinesslike, but because letters have a trick of accumulating, and a filing system is a tyranny to which I will never submit.” Mr. Reeder’s heart could have warmed to this frank man. He loathed old letters and filing was an abominable occupation. “This morning I had a call from Mr. Ralph’s daughter. She lives with her father at Bishop’s Stortford in Essex. Apparently she came upon my name written on an envelope which she found in a wastepaper basket in her father’s office--he had a small office in Lower Regent Street, where he attended to whatever business he had.” “What was his business?” asked Mr. Reeder. “Actually he had none. He was a retired provision merchant who had made a fortune in the City. He may have had, and probably has, one or two minor interests to occupy his spare time. He came up to town last Thursday--curiously enough, I had a telephone call from him at my hotel when I was out. Since that day he has not been seen.” “Dear me!” said Mr. Reeder. “What a coincidence!” Dr. Ingham looked a painful enquiry.