Mr. Reeder was not unknown at Brixton, though his visits were rare, and within a few minutes of his arrival he was taken to a bare waiting room where he was joined by Jake Alsby. The man was shaken. The rather defiant impertinent criminal Mr. Reeder had known had disappeared, and in his place was a man terror-stricken by the fate which had overcome him. “You know me, Mr. Reeder.” His manner was a little wild, and the hand that emphasized almost every sentence was trembling. “I never had a gun in my life, and I would no more think of shooting a man than I would of cutting my own throat. I bashed a fellow or two----” “And there are one or two that you intended bashing,” said Mr. Reeder, pleasantly. “It was drink, Mr. Reeder,” pleaded Jake. “I suppose Gaylor told you that I was coming to see you. That dirty dog would say anything to put me wrong. Besides, Mr. Reeder, I didn’t know this Russian--why should I want to shoot him?” Mr. Reeder shook his head. “People sometimes shoot the merest acquaintances,” he said brightly. “Now tell me all about it, Alsby, with fewer lies than usual. Maybe I can help you. I don’t say that I can, but it may be possible.” Alsby told his story as coherently as he could. Occasionally Mr. Reeder had to bring him back from rambling side issues, but, on the whole, the tale he had to tell was convincing. He forgot, however, one important detail. “When that man was charged with being drunk some days ago,” said Mr. Reeder, “he talked to the police in his--um--intoxication, of a diamond clasp----” “That’s right, sir,” interrupted the man eagerly. “He mentioned it to me, too. I’d forgotten all about that. He told me I could see it. I thought it was just being soused that made him speak that way, and, to tell you the truth, I’d forgotten all about it.” And then a new note of anxiety came into his tone: “Has that been lost? I swear I never saw it.” J.G. Reeder looked at him long and fixedly. A gentle glow of satisfaction came to him. He had spoken of the clasp to Joan Ralph for no other reason than his recollection of the police court proceedings against Litnoff. That reference to the diamond brooch had intrigued him at the time he had read of it. Litnoff had no history as a receiver--that fact had been brought out in court. “Try to remember, Alsby, what other things he said.” Alsby knitted his forehead in an agony of recollection. “I can’t remember anything, Mr. Reeder. I wasn’t with him long after we left the boozer--the public house. He was going home; he lived in Bloomsbury--Lammington Buildings. That was a funny thing: I had known of Lammington Buildings through a pal of mine, who got five years for slush printing. He had a friend who lived there.” Mr. Reeder was interested mainly because the only address which the police knew in connection with Litnoff was his lodging in Pimlico. “How did all this come out, that he was living in Lammington Buildings?” he asked.