His housekeeper returned during the morning with the “daily” servants who constituted his household, and she packed his battered suit-case under his personal supervision. Mr. Reeder had one surprising weakness: dress clothes. However antiquated his daily attire might be, his evening suits were cut by the most fashionable of tailors, and he wanted to look his best at Grayne Hall. He went to town before lunch, met Gaylor by appointment at the office, and handed to him the batch of telegrams which had arrived during the morning. Gaylor examined them casually. “I know all about these,” he said. “Nine of the seventeen English subscribers to Pizarro’s scheme are missing. I can tell you more--with ’em went the best part of eighty thousand pounds. By-the-way, I am offering no further evidence against Jake Alsby. I’ve got him inside for his own safety, but he will be discharged next week.” Gaylor came to the station to see him off. “Have a good time. If the Pizarro crowd chase you to Dover, send me a postcard.” Inspector Gaylor, as has already been stated, had a perverted sense of humour. Throughout the journey Mr. Reeder read a book which was entitled _The Thousand Funniest After-Dinner Stories_. He read them all, the whole thousand, and never smiled once. He had a trick of moving his lips as he read. The military-looking man who sat opposite him had never seen Mr. Reeder at close quarters before and was silently amused. Once he tried to start a conversation, but Mr. Reeder was not a great conversationalist on a railway journey and the attempted affability faded to silence. At Dover station, Mr. Reeder got out and his companion followed. Three men lounged up to Mr. Reeder’s fellow-passenger, and with a nod he indicated the detective, who was passing through the barrier. “That’s your man,” he said, “keep close to him.” The car which was waiting for Mr. Reeder had scarcely left the station yard, when the four entered a closed limousine and followed. The drive from Dover to St. Margaret’s Bay was not a comfortable one. Heavy gusts of wind-borne rain drove across the downs. Below, as the car mounted the cliff road, he could see breakers creaming the yellow-green waters of the Straits, and out at sea a little coasting tramp was taking water over her bows in alarming quantities. Grayne Hall was not in the residential area of St. Margaret’s Bay. It stood aloof in a fold of the downs and within a very short distance of the cliff’s edge. A red brick building, with squat chimneys that were not at all in harmony with the Elizabethan architecture of the house. “We used to have high twisted chimneys, but the wind blew them down. You’ve no idea what the wind is like here,” explained Dr. Ingham before dinner.