“All that I could find out,” said Gaylor, “is that this selling organization is nearly fool-proof. The gang that we rushed last year isn’t handling the output, but I’m satisfied that it still has the same governor.” “Get him,” said the chief, who was in the habit of asking for miracles in the same tone as he asked for his afternoon tea. And then a thought struck him. “Go along and see Reeder. The Public Prosecutor was telling me to-day that Reeder is available for any extra work. He may be able to help, anyway.” Mr. Reeder heard the request, sighed and shook his head. “I’m afraid it is rather--um--outside my line of business. Dope? There used to be a man named Moodle. It may not have been his name, but he had associations with these wretched people----” “Moodle, whose name was Sam Oschkilinski, has been dead nearly a year,” said Gaylor. “Dear me!” said Mr. Reeder, in a hushed voice appropriate to one who has lost a dear friend. “Of what did he die?” “Loss of breath,” said Gaylor vulgarly. Mr. Reeder knew nothing more that he could recall about dope merchants. “Haven’t you some record on your files?” suggested Gaylor. “I never keep files, except--um--nail-files,” said Mr. Reeder. “Perhaps,” suggested Gaylor, “one of your peculiar friends----” “I have no friends,” said Mr. Reeder. But here he did not speak the exact truth. He was cursed with a community spirit and he had a tremendous sense of neighbourly obligations. Especially would he give up valuable time to diagnosing and curing the mysterious diseases which attacked the chickens in Brockley Road. Mr. Reeder was an authority on poultry; he knew exactly why hens droop and cockerels’ combs go pink. He had a marvellous chicken farm in Kent--not large, but rare. Noble lords and ladies consulted him before they exhibited their birds. He could wash and dry living chickens for the bench: the Poultry Show at the Crystal Palace was an event to which Mr. Reeder looked forward for eleven months and two weeks. He would stand in his back garden for hours discussing with the man next door the eccentricities of laying hens, and his acquaintance with Johnny Southers began in a fowl-house. Johnny lived three doors from Mr. Reeder. He was rather a nice young man, fair-haired and good-looking. He had in Mr. Reeder’s eyes the overwhelming advantage of being a very poor conversationalist. Anna Welford lived in the house opposite, so that it may be said that the scene was set, for the curious tragedy of Joe Attymar, on a very small stage.