Reeder went through the book, which was full of essential facts, and jotted down the amounts which this strange man had acquired in the course of twenty years’ depredations. The total was a staggering one. Flack had worked feverishly, and though he had paid well he had spent little. Somewhere in England was an enormous reserve. And that somewhere, Mr. Reeder guessed, was very close to his hand.
For what had John Flack worked? To what end was this accumulation of money? Was the sheer greed of the miser behind his thefts? Was he working aimlessly, as a madman works, toward some visionary objective?
Flack’s greed was proverbial. Nothing satisfied him. The robbery of the Leadenhall Bank had been followed a week later by an attack upon the London Trust Syndicate, carried out, the police discovered, by an entirely new confederation, gathered within a few days of the robbery and yet so perfectly rehearsed that the plan was carried through without a hitch.
Mr. Reeder locked away his books and went downstairs in search of Margaret Belman. The crisis was very near at hand, and it was necessary for his peace of mind that the girl should leave Larmes Keep without delay.
He was halfway down the stairs when he met Daver coming up, and at that moment he received an inspiration.
“You are the very gentleman I wished to meet,” he said, “I wonder if you would do me a great favour?”
Daver’s careworn face wreathed in smiles.
“My dear Mr. Reeder,” he said enthusiastically, “do you a favour? Command me!”
“I have been thinking about last night and my extraordinary experience,” said Mr. Reeder.
“You mean the burglar?” interrupted the other quickly.
“The burglar,” agreed Mr. Reeder. “He was an alarming person, and I am not disposed to let the matter rest where it is. Fortunately for me, I have found a fingerprint on the panel of my door.”
He saw Daver’s face change.
“When I say I have found a fingerprint, I have found something which has the appearance of a fingerprint, and I can only be sure if I examine it by means of a dactyloscope. Unfortunately, I did not imagine that I should have need for such an instrument, and I am wondering if you could send somebody to London to bring it down for me?”
“With all the pleasure in life,” said Daver, though his tone lacked heartiness. “One of the men—”
“I was thinking of Miss Belman,” interrupted J. G. Reeder, “who is a friend of mine and would, moreover, take the greatest possible care of that delicate mechanism.”
Daver was silent for a moment, turning this over in his mind.
“Would it not be better if a man—and the last train down—”
“She could come down by car; I can arrange that.”
Mr. Reeder fumbled his chin.
“Perhaps it would be better if I brought down a couple of men from the Yard.”
“No, no,” said Daver quickly. “You can send Miss Belman. I haven’t the slightest objection. I will tell her.”
Mr. Reeder looked at his watch.
“The next train is at eight thirty-five, and that is the last train, I think. The young lady will be able to get her dinner before she starts.”
It was he who brought the news to the astonished Margaret Belman.
“Of course I’ll go up to town; but don’t you think somebody else could get this instrument for you, Mr. Reeder? Couldn’t you have it sent down—”
She saw the look in his eyes and stopped.
“What is it?” she asked, in a lower voice.
“Will you do this for—um—me, Miss—um—Margaret?” said Mr. Reeder, almost humbly.
He went to the lounge and scribbled a note, while Margaret telephoned for the cab. It was growing dark when the closed landau drew up before the hotel and J. G. Reeder, who accompanied her, opened the door.
“There’s a man inside,” he said, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Please don’t scream: he’s an officer of police and he’s going with you to London.”
“But—but—” she stammered.
“And you’ll stay in London tonight,” said Mr. Reeder. “I will join you in the morning—I hope.”
XII
Mr. Reeder was in his room, laying out his moderate toilet requirements on the dressing table, and meditating upon the waste of time involved in conforming to fashion—for he had dressed for dinner—when there came a tap at the door. He paused, a well-worn hairbrush in his hand, and looked around.
“Come in,” he said, and added: “if you please.”
The little head of Mr. Daver appeared around the opening of the door, anxiety and apology in every line of his peculiar face.
“Am I interrupting you?” he asked. “I am terribly sorry to bother you at all, but Miss Belman being away, you quite understand? I’m sure you do.”
Mr. Reeder was courtesy itself.
“Come in, come in, sir,” he said. “I was merely preparing for the night. I am a very tired man, and the sea air—”
He saw the face of the proprietor fall.
“Then, Mr. Reeder, I have come upon a useless errand. The truth is”—he slipped inside the door, closed it carefully behind him as though he had an important statement to make which he did not wish to be overheard—“my three guests are anxious to play bridge, and they deputed me to ask if you would care to join them?”
“With pleasure,” said Mr. Reeder graciously. “I am an indifferent player, but if they will bear with me, I shall be down in a few minutes.”
Mr. Daver withdrew, babbling his gratitude and apologies.
The door was hardly closed upon him before Mr. Reeder crossed the room and locked it. Stooping, he opened one of the trunks, took out a long, flexible rope ladder, and dropped it through the open window into the darkness below, fastening one end to the leg of the four-poster. Leaning out
