Mr. Reeder bowed graciously. He did not mind. There followed an uncomfortable lacuna of silence, which neither of the men seemed inclined to fill. Mr. Reeder ushered the visitor to the door and went back to his desk, and for five minutes scribbled aimlessly on his blotting pad. He had a weakness for making grotesque drawings, and he was putting an extra long nose upon the elongated head of one of his fanciful sketches when Miss Gillette came in unannounced. “Well, what do you think of that,” she asked. Mr. Reeder stared at her. “What do I think of what, Miss Gillette?” he demanded. “Poor Joan, and she is such a darling. We have kept our friendship all through the Seafield business----” “But how did you know about it?” Mr. Reeder was very seldom bewildered, but he was frankly bewildered now. “I was listening at the door,” said Miss Gillette shamelessly. “Well, not exactly listening, but I left my door open and he talks very loudly; parsons get that way, don’t they?” J.G. Reeder’s face wore an expression that was only comparable to that of a wounded fawn. “It is very--um--wrong to listen,” he began, but she dismissed all questions of propriety with an airy wave of her hand. “It doesn’t matter whether it’s right or wrong. Where is Joan staying?” This was a moment when Mr. J.G. Reeder should have risen with dignity, opened the door, pressed a fortnight’s wages into her hand, and dismissed her to the outer darkness, but he allowed the opportunity to pass. “Can I bring Tommy to see you?” She leant upon the table, resting her palms on the edge. Her enthusiasm was almost infectious. “Tommy doesn’t look clever, but he really is, and he’s always had a theory about Seafield’s bolting. Tommy says that Frank Seafield would never have bought a letter of credit----” “Did he have a letter of credit? I thought you told me that he drew the money out of the bank?” Miss Gillette nodded. “It was a letter of credit,” she said emphatically, “for £6,300. That’s how we knew he had gone abroad. The letter was cashed in Berlin and Vienna.” For a long time Mr. J.G. Reeder looked out of the window. “I should like to talk with Tommy,” he said gravely, and when he looked round Miss Gillette had gone. For a quarter of an hour he sat with his hands folded on his lap, his pale eyes fixed vacantly on the chimney-pot of a house on the opposite side of the street, and then he heard a knock on the outer door. Rising slowly, he went out and opened it. The last person he expected to see was Inspector Gaylor. “The Litnoff murder--are you interested?” Mr. Reeder was interested in all murders, but not especially in the Litnoff case. “Do you know that Jake Alsby was on his way to see you?” Jake Alsby--Mr. Reeder frowned; he knew the name, and, going over the file of his mind, could place him.