“Really, Mr. Reeves, you seem to expect a great deal of me. You come to me, a complete stranger, asking for private information. You ask for it on the ground that you are conducting a private investigation, and you tell me your story. I do not know whether there is a word of truth in your story. I only know that one detail in it is demonstrably false. You now expect me to tell you which that detail is, so that you can correct the only part of your story which I know to be false; is that reasonable? Come now, Mr. Reeves, tell me the whole story again, exactly as it happened, and I will see if I can help you.” “I’m really very sorry, but I have already told you the truth to the best of my ability. I am afraid I could not alter my ‘story,’ as you call it, without falsification.” “Well, I am afraid we seem to be at cross purposes. Perhaps it would be best if you conducted your researches independently, since we cannot agree?” There was no mistaking the hint of the front door about this last suggestion. Reeves rose with what dignity he could muster, and took his leave. It must be regretfully admitted that Gordon received the account he gave of his experiences with tempestuous laughter; and Reeves was glad of that mantle of inaudibility which cuts off the motor-cyclist from his side-car when it is in motion. Carmichael, who met them at the door of the club, was more sympathetic. In his view, Miss Rendall-Smith had given the photograph to Davenant, not realizing his identity with Brotherhood, and had thought it impossible that Davenant should have allowed so precious a document to pass out of his possession. But he was in high spirits, having made, he said, a little discovery of his own. “You know you told me about your efforts to identify the book from which the cipher was taken—the cipher on the postcard? Well, you went the right way to work, but not, if you will excuse my saying so, taking all the possibilities into account. Supposing that Brotherhood had the actual book with him in the carriage when he left London, you have to remember that he changed at Paston Oatvile. Now, I asked myself, what if, from some carelessness or want of interest, he should have left the book in that first-class railway carriage? That train, you see, stops for good at Paston Oatvile, and is cleaned out there the same night.” “Of course. I was a fool not to think of that.” “Well, I went off to the station while you were away, and repeated your own trick.” “Selecting an imaginary book of your own, I suppose?” “No; it is always better to put one story about the country-side rather than two. I said that a friend of mine had lost a copy of _The Sorrows of Satan_, and was anxious to recover it. The porter referred me to another porter, THE other porter, to be accurate, and he informed me that he had found, in that train, a copy of a book called Immorality.” “But there isn’t a book called that.”