“But why on earth—?” began Mr. Bracher, in a tone of astonishment.
“I don’t know what charge I shall bring against him, but it will certainly be a very serious one,” said Reeder. “For the moment I have not confided to Scotland Yard the basis for my suspicions, but your client has got to tell a very plausible story and produce indisputable proof of his innocence to have any hope of escape.”
“I am quite in the dark,” said the lawyer, mystified. “What has he been doing? Is his syndicate a fraud?”
“I know nothing more fraudulent,” said the other shortly. “Tomorrow I intend obtaining the necessary authority to search his papers and to search the room and papers of Mr. John Baston. I have an idea that I shall find something in that room of considerable interest to me.”
It was eight o’clock that night before he left Scotland Yard, and he was turning towards the familiar corner, when he saw a car come from Westminster Bridge towards Scotland Yard. Somebody leaned out of the window and signalled him, and the car turned. It was a two-seater coupe and the driver was Mr. Joseph Bracher.
“We’ve found de Silvo,” he said breathlessly as he brought the car to a standstill at the kerb and jumped out.
He was very agitated and his face was pale. Mr. Reeder could have sworn that his teeth were chattering.
“There’s something wrong—very badly wrong,” he went on. “My brother has been trying to get the truth from him—my God! if he has done these terrible things I shall never forgive myself.”
“Where is he?” asked Mr. Reeder.
“He came just before dinner to our house at Dulwich. My brother and I are bachelors and we live there alone now, and he has been to dinner before. My brother questioned him and he made certain admissions which are almost incredible. The man must be mad.”
“What did he say?”
“I can’t tell you. Ernest is detaining him until you come.”
Mr. Reeder stepped into the car and in a few minutes they were flying across Westminster Bridge towards Camberwell. Lane House, an old-fashioned Georgian residence, lay at the end of a countrified road which was, he found, a cul de sac. The house stood in grounds of considerable size, he noted as they passed up the drive and stopped before the porch. Mr. Bracher alighted and opened the door, and Reeder passed into a cosily furnished hall. One door was ajar.
“Is that Mr. Reeder?” He recognised the voice of Ernest Bracher, and walked into the room.
The younger Mr. Bracher was standing with his back to the empty fireplace; there was nobody else in the room.
“De Silvo’s gone upstairs to lie down,” explained the lawyer. “This is a dreadful business, Mr. Reeder.”
He held out his hand and Reeder crossed the room to take it. As he put his foot on the square Persian rug before the fireplace, he realised his danger and tried to spring back, but his balance was lost. He felt himself falling through the cavity which the carpet hid, lashed out and caught for a moment the edge of the trap, but as the lawyer came round and raised his foot to stamp upon the clutching fingers, Reeder released his hold and dropped.
The shock of the fall took away his breath, and for a second he sprawled, half lying, half sitting, on the floor of the cellar into which he had fallen. Looking up, he saw the older of the two leaning over. The square aperture was diminishing in size. There was evidently a sliding panel which covered the hole in normal times.
“We’ll deal with you later, Reeder,” said Joseph Bracher with a smile. “We’ve had quite a lot of clever people here—”
Something cracked in the cellar. The bullet seared the lawyer’s cheek, smashed a glass chandelier to fragments, and he stepped back with a yell of fear. In another second the trap was closed and Reeder was alone in a small brick-lined cellar. Not entirely alone, for the automatic pistol he held in his hand was a very pleasant companion in that moment of crisis.
From his hip pocket he took a flat electric hand-lamp, switched on the current and surveyed his prison. The walls and floor were damp; that was the first thing he noticed. In one corner was a small flight of brick steps leading to a locked steel door, and then:
“Mr. Reeder.”
He spun round and turned his lamp upon the speaker. It was Margaret Belman, who had risen from a heap of sacks where she had been sleeping.
“I’m afraid I’ve got you into very bad trouble,” she said, and he marvelled at her calm.
“How long have you been here?”
“Since last night,” she answered. “Mr. Bracher telephoned me to see him and he picked me up in his car. They kept me in the other room until tonight, but an hour ago they brought me here.”
“Which is the other room?”
She pointed to the steel door. She offered no further details of her capture, and it was not a moment to discuss their misfortune. Reeder went up the steps and tried the door; it was fastened from the other side, and opened inward, he discovered. There was no sign of a keyhole. He asked her where the door led and she told him that it was to an underground kitchen and coal-cellar. She had hoped to escape, because only a barred window stood between her and freedom in the “little room” where she was kept.
“But the window was very thick,” she said, “and of course I could do nothing with the bars.”
Reeder made another inspection of the cellar, then sent the light of his lamp up at the ceiling. He saw nothing there except a steel pulley fastened to a beam that crossed the entire width of the cellar.
“Now what on earth is he going to do?” he asked thoughtfully,
