“That’s a poor consolation!” he said with some acerbity. “No, I rather think that I was struck by a fist that was holding a weapon. In the darkness this rascal must have struck wildly.” He had not sent for the police. Apparently he had no exalted opinion about the Kentish constabulary, and he admitted a horror of figuring in newspapers. Mr. Reeder could understand this: he also had a horror of publicity. “Whether these people were plain burglars who were disturbed at their work, or whether revenge for some fancied injury was at the bottom of their dastardly action, I cannot make up my mind. With Mrs. Ingham the Pizarro case is an obsession. She is, by the way, looking forward with great eagerness to meeting you. Now tell me, Mr. Reeder, what am I to do? I will be guided entirely by your advice. To go to the police now seems to be a fairly useless proceeding. I cannot describe the men--except for a second when they were silhouetted in the open doorway, I never saw them. My butler and my gardener made enquiries this morning, but nobody else seems to have seen them. Not even the coastguard who has a cottage quite close.” Mr. Reeder sat with half-closed eyes, his large hands folded on his lap. “It is very odd,” he murmured at last. “Kennedy, Casius Kennedy. A bad--um--egg. He inherited it from his mother, a lady with a very--um--unpleasant history.” He pursed his under lip, his eyes had drooped a little lower. “It is odd, extremely odd.” Dr. Ingham drew a long breath. “What am I to do?” he demanded. “Ask for police protection,” said Mr. Reeder. “Have an officer sleeping in the house and another stationed on the grounds. I hope to see you on Saturday.” He rose with startling abruptness and jerked out his hand. “Till Saturday,” he said, and Dr. Ingham went out, a very dissatisfied man. Mr. Reeder was no angel that morning. He was in a mood the like of which Miss Gillette could not remember. She discovered this very soon. “What did you tell the doctor?” she asked. “When I want you, I will ring for you, young lady,” he snapped. She went out, a little dazed by his mutiny. She heard the key turn in his lock and when she got through to him by telephone, he was most unpleasant. “I think I will go home, Mr. Reeder,” she said. “I will send you your wages by post,” said he. She went out of the office, slamming the door behind her, which (apart from the slam) was exactly what he intended she should do. The door to the corridor he locked in the same fashion before he rang up Inspector Gaylor. “I want a couple of men,” he said. “I’m nervous, or, shall I say, apprehensive.” “I wondered when you’d start getting that way,” said Gaylor. “I’m having young Edelsheim shadowed. Thanks for your letter. Is there any other development?” Mr. Reeder told him of the doctor’s unpleasant adventure. “Oh!” said Gaylor, and then after a silence, “That will keep.” “So I thought,” said Mr. Reeder. “Do you mind if I use your name rather freely to-day?”