“And you can tell Kennedy from me he is wasting his time.” “I don’t know what you are talking about,” snarled the man. Mr. Reeder did not parley with him. He mounted the steps, fitted the key in the lock and entered. He stopped long enough to hang his wet mackintosh in the hall, remove his goloshes, and then went up to his room. He was in darkness. He did not switch on the light, and crossing the room, he pulled aside the heavy curtains and looked out. The man in the blue trench coat was still standing in front of the house, but now he had been joined by the loiterer in the yellow oilskin coat, and they were talking together. Mr. Reeder was cursed with a sense of humour which was peculiar to himself. He went into his bedroom, and from a shelf in the cupboard he took a small air pistol, and “breaking it,” inserted a pellet. At the distance which separated him from his two watchers an air pistol would not be dangerous, but it should be very painful. Gently lifting the sash, he took aim and pressed the trigger. He heard the man in the yellow oilskin yell and saw him leap into the air. “What’s biting you?” demanded blue trench coat. “Somep’n bit me.” He was clasping his neck and rolling his head backwards and forwards in his pain. Mr. Reeder broke the pistol again, put another pellet in the breech and took even more accurate aim. “Say, listen,” said the man in the trench coat. He said no more. His hat went flying, and looking up in his bewilderment, he saw Mr. Reeder leaning out of the window. “Go away,” said Mr. Reeder gently. He did not hear the reply because he closed the window quickly. He objected to profanity on principle. But when a few minutes later he looked out again the two men had disappeared. It was 11 o’clock when he went to bed. He was by no means a light sleeper, or he would have heard the first pebble that struck his window. The second woke him, and for a good reason: the stone was heavier and the pane smashed. He got out of bed quickly and very cautiously went to the edge of the window and looked out. There was nobody in sight. Pushing open the casement he made a more careful survey: the street was empty. He could see no living soul, and then, as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he saw a figure moving in the shadow of the one laurel bush which decorated the front garden of his house. This time Mr. Reeder did not take an air pistol, but a very business-like Browning in the pocket of his dressing gown. He went noiselessly down the stairs, unbolted the door, opened it and flashed a concentrated beam of a powerful spotlight into the garden. It was neither trench coat nor oilskin, but a bedraggled youth, hatless, whose wet clothes seemed skin tight. From the darkness came a beseeching voice: “Is that Mr. Reeder… For God’s sake take the light off me.” “Oh, it’s you, is it?” said J.G. gently, and a little incongruously it sounded, even to himself. “Did you see my advertisement?”