“I mean in the country. I have been discussing this matter with my wife--a woman of remarkable acumen. She has a theory which, I must confess, I regard as entirely fantastic. I should not have mentioned it to you, but for the doubts you have concerning this Berlin telegram, which, I imagined, cleared up the mystery. I said to her only last night ‘My dear, if you told Mr. Reeder your theory, he would think you had been reading detective literature!’ She is an invalid--very seldom leaves the house. I feel that it would be asking you a great deal if I suggested you should spend a week-end with us.” Mr. Reeder hesitated. “I seldom go out,” he said, “but what is your good lady’s theory?” The doctor smiled. “I feel I ought to apologize for even advancing such a suggestion. Years ago when I was in America I was swindled. The sum was insignificant, but it was a lesson to me. Here was I, an independent man, thanks to my dear father’s beneficence, and yet the cupidity which is latent in all of us overcame my scruples and I invested in a ridiculous get-rich-quick scheme… a sort of treasure hunt, organized by a rascal called Pizarro!” Mr. Reeder nodded, but offered no comment. “My dear wife has an idea that behind Mr. Ralph’s disappearance is some diabolical plot--exactly what it is I am at a loss to explain. The theory, fantastical as it is, has to do with Pizarro. Now I happen to know that Pizarro is in prison--at least that is my belief----” Mr. Reeder raised a long forefinger; it might have been a gesture of warning. It was in truth an indication that he wished to speak. “On Saturday afternoon I have nothing particular to do,” he said. “May I trespass on your hospitality? May I say with respect that your wife is a very intelligent lady, and I should like to meet her.” Dr. Ingham would send his car to meet the Dover Express. The plan was agreeable to Mr. Reeder, but---- “I must return at night. I--um--never sleep in any bed but my own.” Dr. Ingham understood this prejudice against strange beds. He had an alternative suggestion, namely that Mr. Reeder should make the whole journey by car. “It will take a little longer, but it’s a very good road, and I could have you picked up at your place in Brockley which is on the way.” Here again he found J.G. Reeder agreeable. For the remainder of the day Mr. Reeder waited in vain for some communication from the red-haired youth, but none had come when Miss Gillette returned to the office, which was somewhere in the region of five o’clock. He was not exactly idle; an assistant whom he sometimes employed came to see him at his urgent request, and spent a profitable afternoon searching certain records at Somerset House. By the time Miss Gillette returned he had a complete list of English subscribers of the Pizarro Syndicate, and, with three exceptions, had sent telegrams to their known addresses. He did not wire to Mr. Ralph, the missing Seafield, or yet to Mr. Gelpin.