Mr. Reeder nodded.
“And you’ve received your dividends regularly ever since?” he said.
“Every month,” said the girl triumphantly. “And really I think you’re wrong in connecting the company with these disappearances.”
Mr. Reeder did not reply. That afternoon he made it his business to call at 179, Portugal Street. It was a two-story building of an old-fashioned type. A wide flagged hall led into the building; a set of old-fashioned stairs ran up to the “top floor,” which was occupied by a China merchant; and from the hall led three doors. That on the left bore the legend “Bracher & Bracher, Solicitors,” and immediately facing was the office of the Mexican Syndicate. At the far end of the passage was a door which exhibited the name “John Baston,” but as to Mr. Baston’s business there was no indication.
Mr. Reeder knocked gently at the door of the syndicate and a voice bade him come in. A young man, wearing glasses, was sitting at a typewriting table, a pair of dictaphone receivers in his ears, and he was typing rapidly.
“No, sir, Mr. de Silvo is not in. He only comes in about twice a week,” said the clerk. “Will you give me your name?”
“It is not important,” said Reeder gently, and went out, closing the door behind him.
He was more fortunate in his call upon Bracher & Bracher, for Mr. Joseph Bracher was in his office: a tall, florid gentleman who wore a large rose in his buttonhole. The firm of Bracher & Bracher was evidently a prosperous one, for there were half a dozen clerks in the outer office, and Mr. Bracher’s private sanctum, with its big partner desk, was a model of shabby comfort.
“Sit down, Mr. Reeder,” said the lawyer, glancing at the card.
In a few words Mr. Reeder stated his business, and Mr. Bracher smiled.
“It is fortunate you came today,” he said. “If it were tomorrow we should not be able to give you any information. The truth is, we have had to ask Mr. de Silvo to find other lawyers. No, no, there is nothing wrong, except that they constantly refer their clients to us, and we feel that we are becoming in the nature of sponsors for their clients, and that, of course, is very undesirable.”
“Have you a record of the people who have written to you from time to time asking your advice?”
Mr. Bracher shook his head.
“It is a curious thing to confess, but we haven’t,” he said; “and that is one of the reasons why we have decided to give up this client. Three weeks ago, the letter-book in which we kept copies of all letters sent to people who applied for a reference most unaccountably disappeared. It was put in the safe overnight, and in the morning, although there was no sign of tampering with the lock, it had vanished. The circumstances were so mysterious, and my brother and I were so deeply concerned, that we applied to the syndicate to give us a list of their clients, and that request was never complied with.”
Mr. Reeder sought inspiration in the ceiling.
“Who is John Baston?” he asked, and the lawyer laughed.
“There again I am ignorant. I believe he is a very wealthy financier, but, so far as I know, he only comes to his office for three months in the year, and I have never seen him.”
Mr. Reeder offered him his flabby hand and walked back along Portugal Street, his chin on his breast, his hands behind him dragging his umbrella, so that he bore a ludicrous resemblance to some strange tailed animal.
That night he waited again for the girl, but she did not appear, and although he remained at the rendezvous until half-past five he did not see her. This was not very unusual, for sometimes she had to work late, and he went home without any feeling of apprehension. He finished his own frugal dinner and then walked across to the boardinghouse. Miss Belman had not arrived, the landlady told him, and he returned to his study and telephoned first to the office where she was employed and then to the private address of her employer.
“She left at half-past four,” was the surprising news. “Somebody telephoned to her and she asked me if she might go early.”
“Oh!” said Mr. Reeder blankly.
He did not go to bed that night, but sat up in a small room at Scotland Yard, reading the brief reports which came in from the various divisions. And with the morning came the sickening realisation that Margaret Belman’s name must be added to those who had disappeared in such extraordinary circumstances.
He dozed in the big Windsor chair. At eight o’clock he returned to his own house and shaved and bathed, and when the Public Prosecutor arrived at his office he found Mr. Reeder waiting for him in the corridor. It was a changed Mr. Reeder, and the change was not due entirely to lack of sleep. His voice was sharper; he had lost some of that atmosphere of apology which usually enveloped him.
In a few words he told of Margaret Belman’s disappearance.
“Do you connect de Silvo with this?” asked his chief.
“Yes, I think I do,” said the other quietly, and then: “There is only one hope, and it is a very slender one—a very slender one indeed!”
He did not tell the Public Prosecutor in what that hope consisted, but walked down to the offices of the Mexican Syndicate.
Mr. de Silvo was not in. He would have been very much surprised if he had been. He crossed the hallway to see the lawyer, and this time he found Mr. Ernest Bracher present with his brother.
When Reeder spoke to the point, it was very much to the point.
“I am leaving a police officer in Portugal
