“On this floor,” said Mr. Reeder almost jovially, “wicked old barons were slicing off their enemies’ heads and were dropping them into the deepest dungeon beneath the--um.” No, he had never heard of a moat. It could not well be that, could it? As the footman placed a cup of soup before him, and the tall butler poured him out a glass of wine, Mr. Reeder looked at the glass, held it up to the light. “That’s good stuff. I can quite imagine,” he said reminiscently, “that dramatic scene when Geoffrey De Boisy induced his old rival to come to dinner. How he must have smiled as his varlets ended--um--the unfortunate gentleman with wine from a poisoned flagon.” He finished the scrutiny of the wine and put it down untasted. Mrs. Ingham was amused. “You have a mediæval mind, Mr. Reeder.” “A criminal mind,” said that gentleman. He did not drink throughout the meal, and Dr. Ingham remembered that he had merely sipped his whisky in the study. “Yes, I am a teetotaller in a sense,” said Mr. Reeder, “but I find life so completely exciting that I require no other stimulant.” He had observed that the man who had valeted him was also the footman. He waited till the two servants were at the other end of the room, and then: “Your man is looking rather ill. Has he also been injured in the fight?” “Thomas? No, he did not appear on the scene until it was all over,” said Dr. Ingham, in surprise. “Why?” “I thought I saw a bandage round his throat.” “I haven’t noticed it,” said the host. The conversation flagged. The coffee was served on the table, and Mr. Reeder helped himself liberally to sugar. He refused a cigar, and, apologizing for his bad manners, took one of his own cigarettes. “Matches, Thomas,” said Dr. Ingham, but before the footman could obey, Mr. Reeder had taken a box from his pocket and struck a match. It was no ordinary match: the light of it blazed blindingly white so that he had to screw up his eyes to avoid the glare. Only for a moment, then it died down, leaving the party blinking. “What was that?” asked Ingham. Mr. Reeder stared hopelessly at the box. “Somebody has been playing a joke on me,” he said. “I am terribly sorry.” They were very ordinary looking matches. He passed the box across to his host, who struck one, but produced nothing more startling than a mild yellow flame. “I have never seen anything so extraordinary,” said the beautiful lady who sat on his left. “It was almost like a magnesium flare. We see them sometimes when ships are in distress.” The incident of the match passed. It was the doctor who led the conversation to the Pizarros and Mrs. Ingham who elaborated her theory. J.G. Reeder sat listening, apparently absorbed. “I don’t think he was a really bad man,” Mrs. Ingham was saying when he interrupted. “Pizarro was a blackguard,” said Mr. Reeder. “But he had the kind of nature one would have expected in a half-bred Dago.” If he saw Mrs. Ingham stiffen, he gave no sign.