He looked up suddenly.
“You say he is not so old. Do you know him? I see that you do. That is even a more remarkable coincidence. I am looking forward with the utmost delight to discussing with him my pet subject. It will be an intellectual treat.”
“I don’t think Mr. Reeder discusses crime,” she said. “He is rather reticent on the subject.”
“We shall see,” said Mr. Daver, and from his manner she guessed that he, at any rate, had no doubt that the man from the Public Prosecutor’s office would respond instantly to a sympathetic audience.
Mr. Reeder came just before seven, and to her surprise he had abandoned his frock coat and curious hat and was almost jauntily attired in gray flannels. He brought with him two very solid and heavy-looking steamer trunks.
The meeting was not without its moment of embarrassment.
“I trust you will not think, Miss—um—Margaret, that I am being indiscreet. But the truth is, I—um—am in need of a holiday.”
He never looked less in need of a holiday; compared with the Reeder she knew, this man was most unmistakably alert.
“Will you come to my office?” she said, a little unsteadily.
When they reached her office, Mr. Reeder opened the door reverently. She had a feeling that he was holding his breath, and she was seized with an almost uncontrollable desire to laugh. Instead, she preceded him into her sanctum. When the door closed:
“I was an awful pig to you, Mr. Reeder,” she began rapidly. “I ought to have written—the whole thing was so absurd—the quarrel, I mean.”
“The disagreement,” murmured Mr. Reeder. “I am old-fashioned, I admit, but an old man—”
“Forty-eight isn’t old,” she scoffed. “And why shouldn’t you wear side whiskers? It was unpardonable of me—feminine curiosity: I wanted to see how you looked.”
Mr. Reeder raised his hand. His voice was almost gay.
“The fault was entirely mine, Miss Margaret. I am old-fashioned. You do not think—er—it is indecorous, my paying a visit to Larmes Keep?”
He looked round at the door and lowered his voice.
“When did Mr. Ravini leave?” he asked.
She looked at him, amazed.
“Did you come down about that?”
He nodded slowly.
“I heard he was here. Somebody told me. When did he go?”
Very briefly she told him the story of her night’s experience, and he listened, his face growing longer and longer, until she had finished.
“Before that, can you remember what happened? Did you see him the night before he left?”
She knit her forehead and tried to remember.
“Yes,” she said suddenly, “he was in the grounds, walking with Miss Crewe. He came in rather late—”
“With Miss Crewe?” asked Reeder quickly. “Miss Crewe? Was that the rather interesting young lady I saw playing croquet with a clergyman as I came across the lawn?”
She looked at him in surprise.
“Did you come across the lawn? I thought you drove up to the front of the house.”
“I descended from the vehicle at the top of the hill,” Mr. Reeder hastily explained. “At my age, a little exercise is vitally necessary. The approaches to the Keep are charming. A young lady, rather pale, with dark eyes … hum!”
He was looking at her searchingly, his head a little on one side.
“So she and Ravini went out. Were they acquainted?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t think Ravini had met her until he came here.”
She went on to tell him of Ravini’s agitation, and of how she had found Olga Crewe in tears.
“Weeping—ah!” Mr. Reeder fondled his nose. “You have seen her since?”
And when the girl shook her head:
“She got up late the next morning—had a headache possibly?” he asked eagerly, and her eyes opened in astonishment.
“Why, yes. How did you know?”
But Mr. Reeder was not in an informative mood.
“The number of your room is—?”
“No. 4. Miss Crewe’s is No. 5.”
Reeder nodded.
“And Ravini was in No. 7—that is two doors away.” Then, suddenly: “Where have you put me?”
She hesitated.
“In No. 7. Those were Mr. Daver’s orders. It is one of the best rooms in the house. I warn you, Mr. Reeder, the proprietor is a criminologist and is most anxious to discuss his hobby.”
“Delighted,” murmured Mr. Reeder, but he was thinking of something else. “Could I see Mr. Daver?”
The quarter-of-an-hour gong had already sounded, and she took him along to the office in the annex. Mr. Daver’s desk was surprisingly tidy. He was surveying an account book through large horn-rimmed spectacles and looked up inquiringly as she came in.
“This is Mr. Reeder,” she said, and withdrew.
For a second they looked at one another, the detective and the Puck-faced little proprietor; and then, with a magnificent wave of his hand, Mr. Daver invited his visitor to a seat.
“This is a very proud moment for me, Mr. Reeder,” he said, and bent himself double in a profound bow. “As a humble student of those great authorities whose works, I have no doubt, are familiar to you, I am honoured at this privilege of meeting one whom I may describe as a modern Lombroso. You agree with me? I was certain you would.”
Mr. Reeder looked up at the ceiling.
“Lombroso?” he repeated slowly. “An—um—Italian gentleman, I think? The name is almost familiar.”
Margaret Belman had not quite closed the door, and Mr. Daver rose and shut it; returned to his chair with an outflung hand and seated himself.
“I am glad you have come. In fact, Mr. Reeder, you have relieved my mind of a great uneasiness. Ever since yesterday morning I have been wondering whether I ought not to call up Scotland Yard, that splendid institution, and ask them to dispatch an officer to clear up this strange and possibly revolting mystery.”
He paused impressively.
“I refer to the disappearance of Mr. George Ravini, a guest of Larmes Keep, who left this house at a quarter to five yesterday morning and was seen
