The room allotted to Mr. Reeder’s use gave him a beautiful view of the sea and the flower garden before the house. It was furnished with rare taste--he saw in the decorations Mrs. Ingham’s hand. A pleasant retreat, but in many, many ways a dangerous one. He went up to his room after tea and found his dress clothes laid out for him by his host’s valet. Later came the individual to assist Mr. Reeder. A bathroom opened from the bedroom and Mr. Reeder was under the shower when the valet knocked. He came out, to find the man folding the discarded day clothes and hanging them neatly in the wardrobe. The contents of his pockets were placed neatly on the dressing table. “Thank you,” murmured Mr. Reeder. “I--um--shall not require you any more. I will ring if I do.” He closed the door on the retiring valet, turned the key and began to dress at his leisure. Mr. Reeder liked the routine of well run country houses and Grayne Hall was extraordinarily well run. He came down to find himself alone in the drawing room. A fine aromatic cedar log burnt on the open grate, above which was a picture which might have been a Rembrandt. The soft hangings of the room, the austere furnishings, the pastel coloured walls, were very soothing. Dr. Ingham, wearing the evening dress of the laity, came in to rub his hands before the fire. “I suppose Elsa gave you the full benefit of her theories? There may be something in them. I’ve been trying to think how I might have offended these birds. A sermon maybe. I used to be a powerful preacher--took current events as my text. Come into my study and have a drink. Elsa won’t be down for hours.” He conducted Mr. Reeder across the panelled hall, through a deeply recessed door into as comfortable a room as the heart of man could desire. Deep armchairs, a low divan before the fire, walls covered with bookshelves, and a big empire desk were the main features of the room. “Comfort, comfort, comfort!” said the cleric as he opened a walnut cabinet and took out a silver tray laden with glasses. To these he added a square decanter and a syphon. “Say when.” He splashed the soda into the brown whisky and Mr. Reeder sipped daintily. “Elsa wants me to keep firearms in the house. Now you, as a detective, I suppose would think nothing of that. To me it is an abhorrent practice. I may not be a great preacher, but I am, I hope, a good Christian, and the idea of taking life--ugh!” Mr. Reeder tried to raise a complimentary shudder, but failed. For his part he believed in taking life. He was old-fashioned enough to regard the gallows as an instrument of the highest social value. “I presume you carry a gun?” Mr. Reeder shook his head. “On occasions that dreadful necessity has been forced upon me,” he said. “I dislike the practice. I have--er--two such weapons, but I have never had to use them. One is at my office and one at my private residence.” The doctor made a little face.