As he was speaking, a door at the far end of the corridor opened and closed instantly. Mr. Reeder, who missed nothing, caught one glimpse of a figure before the door shut.
“Whose room is that?” he asked.
Mr. Daver was genuinely embarrassed this time.
“That,” he said, with a nervous little cough, “is my suite. You saw Mrs. Burton, my housekeeper—a quiet, rather sad soul who has had a great deal of trouble in her life.”
“Life,” said Mr. Reeder tritely, “is full of trouble,” and Mr. Daver agreed with a sorrowful shake of his head.
Now the eyesight of J. G. Reeder was peculiarly good, and though he had not as yet met the housekeeper, he was quite certain that the rather beautiful face he had glimpsed for a moment did not belong to any sad woman who had seen a lot of trouble. As he dressed leisurely for dinner, he wondered why Miss Olga Crewe had been so anxious that she should not be seen coming from the proprietor’s suite. A natural and proper modesty, no doubt; and modesty was the quality in woman of which Mr. Reeder most heartily approved.
He was struggling with his tie when Daver, who seemed to have constituted himself a sort of personal attendant, knocked at the door and asked permission to come in. He was a little breathless and carried a number of press cuttings in his hand.
“You were talking about two gentlemen, Mr. Willington and Mr. Holden,” he said. “The names seemed rather familiar. I had the irritating sense of knowing them without knowing them, if you understand, dear Mr. Reeder? And then I recalled the circumstances.” He flourished the press cuttings. “I saw their names here.”
Mr. Reeder, staring at his reflection in the glass, adjusted his tie nicely.
“Here?” he repeated mechanically, and looking round, accepted the printed slips which his host thrust upon him.
“I am, as you probably know, Mr. Reeder, a humble disciple of Lombroso and of those other great criminologists who have elevated the study of abnormality to a science. It was Miss Belman who quite unconsciously directed my thoughts to the Flack organization, and during the past day or two I have been getting a number of particulars concerning those miscreants. The names of Holden and Willington occur. They were two detectives who went out in search of Flack and never returned. I remember their disappearance very well, now the matter is recalled to my mind. There was also a third gentleman who disappeared.”
Mr. Reeder nodded.
“Ah, you remember?” said Mr. Daver triumphantly. “Naturally you would. A lawyer named Biggerthorpe, who was called from his office one day on some excuse, and was never seen again. May I add”—he smiled good-humouredly—“that Mr. Biggerthorpe has never stayed here? Why should you imagine he had, Mr. Reeder?”
“I never did.” Mr. Reeder gave blandness for blandness. “Biggerthorpe? I had forgotten him. He would have been an important witness against Flack if he’d ever been caught—hum!”
And then:
“You are a student of criminal practices, Mr. Daver?”
“A humble one,” said Mr. Daver, and his humility was manifest in his attitude.
And then he suddenly dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper.
“Shall I tell you something, Mr. Reeder?”
“You may tell me,” said Mr. Reeder, as he buttoned his waistcoat, “anything that pleases you. I am in the mood for stories. In this delightful atmosphere, amidst these beautiful surroundings, I should prefer—um—fairy stories—or shall we say ghost stories? Is Larmes Keep haunted, Mr. Daver? Ghosts are my specialty. I have probably seen and arrested more ghosts than any other living representative of the law. Sometime I intend writing a monumental work on the subject. Ghosts I Have Seen, or a Guide to the Spirit World, in sixty-three volumes. You were about to say—?”
“I was about to say,” said Mr. Daver, and his voice was curiously strained, “that in my opinion Flack himself once stayed here. I have not mentioned this fact to Miss Belman, but I am convinced in my mind that I am not in error. Seven years ago”—he was very impressive—“a gray-bearded, rather thin-faced man came here at ten o’clock at night and asked for a lodging. He had plenty of money, but this did not influence me. Ordinarily I should have asked him to make the usual application, but it was late, a bitterly cold and snowy night, and I hadn’t the heart to turn one of his age away from my door.”
“How long did he stay?” asked Mr. Reeder. “And why do you think he was Flack?”
“Because”—Daver’s voice had sunk until it was an eerie moan—“he left just as Ravini left—early one morning, without paying his bill, and left his pajamas behind him!”
Very slowly Mr. Reeder turned his head and surveyed the host.
“That comes into the category of humorous stories, and I am too hungry to laugh,” he said calmly. “What time do we dine?”
The gong sounded at that moment.
Margaret Belman usually dined at a table apart from the other guests. She went red and felt more than a little awkward when Mr. Reeder came across to her table, dragging a chair with him, and ordered another place to be set. The other three guests dined at separate tables.
“An unsociable lot of people,” said Mr. Reeder as he shook out his napkin and glanced round the room.
“What do you think of Mr. Daver?”
J. G. Reeder smiled gently.
“He is a very amusing person,” he said, and she laughed, but grew serious immediately.
“Have you found out anything about Ravini?”
Mr. Reeder shook his head.
“I had a talk with the hall porter; he seems a very honest and straightforward fellow. He told me that when he came down the morning after Ravini disappeared, the front door had been unbolted and unlocked. An observant fellow. Who is Mrs. Burton?” he asked abruptly.
“The housekeeper.” Margaret smiled and shook her head. “She is rather a miserable lady who spends quite a lot of time hinting at the good times she should be having instead of
