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arranged purposefully, the books were books that had been collected, not simply amassed. The room smelt, Reeves said afterwards, of not having been smoked in. Nor did the lady of the house belie this first impression. Her beauty was still undeniable, but it was something more than beauty which disarmed you. You felt at once that she was kind and that she was competent, but you felt that if a choice had to be made she would be competent rather than kind. She might have been the matron of a big hospital, instead of an unoccupied householder in a small country town.

"Good-morning, Mr. Reeves," she said, "it's very kind of you to come and see me. I don't think we ever met, did we? I know the Secretary, of course, and several of the club members, but we're rather out of the golfing world down here. But my maid says you want to see me on urgent business—please tell me if I can be of any use."

Mordaunt Reeves, with an unaccountable feeling of being the detected rather than the detective, produced the photograph from his pocket, and asked melodramatically, "Excuse me, Miss Rendall-Smith, but do you recognize this photograph?"

There was just the fraction of a pause, just the suspicion of a gasp. Then she said, "Of course I do! I don't know whether my looking-glass would, of course . . . but a thing like this can't be done behind one's back, can it? I think it was taken when I was here before, while my father was still alive. What did you want to know about it?"