Miss Gillette brought one item of news: she had spent the afternoon in committee with her fiancé and Joan Ralph, and they had come to the conclusion that something was wrong. It hardly seemed worth a committee meeting, thought Mr. Reeder, but he avoided trouble by refraining from making such provocative comment. He left the office at six o’clock and wandered off to Scotland Yard and went immediately to Gaylor’s room. “I could have saved you the trouble,” said Gaylor, when Reeder told him about the telegrams he had sent. “We have already been in touch with the local police and they are making enquiries. We have found two subscribers, but they are very poor people and not likely to be affected. I also had a look at that map in Schmidt’s flat, and have been on the telephone to the Montreux police. They say that the area marked out in red ink is a derelict farm, the property of a Russian. The police chief was very decent; he sent a couple of men climbing about Glion to investigate, and they report there is nobody there, the place is in a state of ruin, and it has not been occupied for a number of years. There used to be a caretaker, but he has been withdrawn. The Russian was of course Litnoff. Apparently he was there only once or twice in his life, and never lived at the farm. It’s a puzzling business.” “To me it is as clear as the running water in the mountain stream,” said Mr. Reeder poetically, “but that, of course, is because I have a criminal mind.” He returned to his office at nine that evening, after a frugal dinner. No telegrams had arrived. The only letter awaiting him was one from a former client, enclosing a cheque. CHAPTER IV The drizzle had turned to rain. It pelted down on Mr. Reeder’s mackintosh and flowed in spasmodic splashes from the brim of his high-crowned hat, as he trudged towards the nearest tramcar that would take him home. It was not the sort of night when people would be abroad. Again he found the lounger in a yellow oilskin coat standing at the corner of Brockley Road, and another idler pacing leisurely up and down. This man turned at the sound of his steps and came towards him. “Have you got a match, governor?” His voice was harsh and common, and did not somehow go with his respectable attire, for he had a blue trench coat buttoned up to his chin and belted about his waist. The point of Mr. Reeder’s umbrella came up until it pointed just above that belt. “I haven’t a match. If I had, I would not be so foolish as to put my hands in my pocket so as to give it to you,” he said haranguingly. “Now, if you will kindly stand out of my way, you will save yourself a lot of trouble.” “I asked you civilly, didn’t I?” growled the man. “Your civility doesn’t amuse me,” said Mr. Reeder, and then suddenly his hand shot out and he got the man by the shoulder, exhibiting a strength which none would have suspected in him, and sent him flying toward the road. He passed through the little iron gate, slammed it behind him.