“He wanted to take a taxi. I told him I was living in Holborn. He said ‘You can drop me at Lammington Buildings.’ After that he sort of corrected himself, but I knew he had let his address slip out. You are going to do something for me, ain’t you, Mr. Reeder? You have always been fair to me.” “That is not my recollection of your expressed opinion,” said Mr. Reeder acidly. Going back to town he pondered on the possibility that Litnoff also might have had a “friend” in this block of flats. It was raining heavily when his ’bus dropped him at the corner of Southampton Row; but it had been raining more or less all day, and since he wore his shabby yellow mackintosh which, coming almost to his heels, gave him, despite his bent shoulders, a giant-like appearance, he did not think it necessary to unfurl the umbrella which he carried on his arm, summer and winter, although it was never known to be opened. He found Lammington Buildings without much trouble. It was situate in a side turning off Gower Street. Mr. Reeder opened his enquiries with the hall porter. The name of Litnoff was unknown; but the hall porter was a reader of newspapers and had seen a portrait of the murdered man. Almost before Mr. Reeder could put a question, the porter blurted out his suspicion. “I bet that’s Schmidt. If it isn’t, it’s his twin brother. In fact, I was just writing a letter to the _Daily Megaphone_. I always thought that Schmidt was a queer customer. He only slept here once or twice a month. I was talking to Mrs. Adderly this afternoon about him. As a matter of fact, she’s in his flat now, though she’s one of those kind of women who wouldn’t talk. You can’t get a word out of her. I says to her ‘Suppose the police come here and want to know?’ ‘Let ’em come,’ she says. What can you do with a woman like that?” Mr. Reeder could supply no reply to this pertinent question, and then, surprisingly, the hall porter said: “I knew you, Mr. Reeder, the moment I put my eyes on you. You were in the Orderley Street affair. I was the porter at the hotel, if you will remember, who saw the man getting out of the window.…” He went, with surprising accuracy, into the particulars of a case in which the detective had figured many years before. Mr. Reeder was a good listener. He discovered at the very early stages of his career that the art of listening was the art of detection, and he allowed the porter to continue his reminiscences before he asked: “Is Mrs. Adderly in the flat now?” The porter pointed dramatically to a door that led to the front of the vestibule. “Do you want to see her?” “I should like,” said Mr. Reeder. The porter rang and knocked. After a considerable time the door was opened a little way, and the space was filled by a suspicious looking and bare-armed lady, who wore a soiled apron and had a face which was equally in need of hot water and soap.