Morning, as might have been expected, brought division of counsel. Mordaunt Reeves could now find no difference between the photograph as he saw it at the moment and the photograph as he had seen it at dinner the previous night. Carmichael agreed with him, though he still talked a good deal about collective hallucinations. Gordon could not make up his mind one way or the other; only Marryatt was certain that there had been a change. Anyhow, change or no change, Reeves put the once dreaded object in his pocket, and set out after breakfast in Gordon’s sidecar. Gordon volunteered to drive him over, though firmly announcing that he would not go inside Miss Rendall-Smith’s house; Carmichael sought to deter them by wise saws and modern instances, and they left him multa volentem dicere at the clubhouse door.

It must be confessed that Reeves felt a certain misgiving as he waited in Miss Rendall-Smith’s drawing-room. Rooms do echo personalities, and this drawing-room spoke of a forceful one; the furnishing was strategically perfect, the flowers were 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?”

“I’m afraid it must seem very impertinent of me to be asking questions about it, but the thing is of importance. I think I’d better tell you the whole situation. You’ll have heard, of course, this sad news about poor old Brotherhood, at Paston Whitchurch?”

“I read about it, of course, in the paper.”

“Well, one or two of his friends, that is, of people who knew him down at the club, aren’t quite satisfied with the line the police have taken about it. They think⁠—we think they swallowed the idea of suicide too easily, without examining all the facts; and⁠—well, the thing we can’t feel certain of is that there hasn’t been foul play.”

“Foul play? But why should anybody⁠ ⁠…”

“Oh, we’ve no suspicion of any motive. We thought, perhaps, that was where you might help us. It was I and some friends of mine who actually found the body, you know, and there were certain indications which suggested to us that Brotherhood had⁠ ⁠… had been murdered. There was the position of his hat, for example⁠—still, we needn’t go into all that. We did entertain the suspicion very strongly, only the clues we had at our disposal weren’t sufficient to let us follow up our suspicions, if you see what I mean. The only one which we felt might help us to get any further was this photograph. By a mere accident, for which I’m not responsible, it didn’t get into the hands of the police.”

“The police know nothing about it?”

“We have no reason to think they do. But it was found in Brotherhood’s pocket⁠—at least, it was found in circumstances which made it quite clear that it had fallen out of his pocket, when the⁠ ⁠… when his body was being moved.”

Miss Rendall-Smith took another look at the portrait, which still lay in her hands. “Then,” she said, “what exactly do you want me to do about it?”

“Well, you must understand, of course, that we are very reluctant to open up any subject which may be painful to you. But at the same time, since it seemed likely that you had some knowledge of Brotherhood’s history and circumstances which the world at large doesn’t share, we thought perhaps you would tell us whether you can form any guess yourself as to the circumstances of his death. To put it in the concrete, do you know of anyone who would have a motive for wishing ill to Brotherhood, or who might be likely to take his life?”

“I see. You want me to help justice. But you want me to help you, not the police.”

“We are helping the police ourselves. Only the police are not always very⁠—what shall I say?⁠—the police don’t always encourage help from outside; there is a good deal of red tape about their methods. I was in the Military Intelligence myself during the war, and had some opportunity of seeing the unfortunate effects of rivalry and jealousy between the various departments. We have not approached the police; we thought it best to work on our own until we could present them with a fait accompli. That is why we have not even mentioned to the police the existence of this photograph which we found on the body.”

“Mr. Reeves⁠—”

A woman can use a surname as a bludgeon. That title of respect, “Mr. So-and-So,” which expresses our relations to the outside world, has often, indeed, had an ominous ring for us. Deans used it when they were protesting at our neglect of chapels; proctors, when they urged the immodesty of going out to dinner without a cap and gown. But nobody can use it with the same annihilating effect as a woman scorned. “Mister”⁠—you are a man, I a defenceless woman. “Mister”⁠—you have the title of a gentleman, although you are behaving like a cad. “Mister”⁠—you see, I treat you with all possible politeness, although you have not deserved any such respect from me. There is irony in the word “Mister”; it makes one long for a title.

“Mr. Reeves, I am sorry to say that you are not telling me the truth.”

Reeves sat stunned. It was too bad, that he should have thrown away disguises only to be called a liar. It was too bad that Gordon should have been right when he said “Nothing deceives like the truth.” He sat there humbled, waiting for more.

“Of course, I don’t see at all why you and your friends see fit to treat me in this way. The only thing that seems quite clear to me is that it is unfair to expect me to be frank with you when you are not being frank with me. I am sorry to say that I cannot help you.”

“May I say something? I am afraid you feel that you are being left in the dark because I am not telling you everything, all the suspicions we have formed as well as the facts which have come to our notice. I can quite understand that, if that is what you mean, but⁠—”

“I mean nothing of the kind. I mean that the statements which you have made to me are, to my certain knowledge, untrue.”

Reeves gave a rather ghastly smile. “Would you mind telling me exactly which statement of mine it is that you call in question?”

“Really, Mr. Reeves, you seem to expect a great deal of me. You come to me, a complete stranger, asking for private information. You ask for it on the ground that you are conducting a private investigation, and you tell me your story. I do not know whether there is a word of truth in your story. I only know that one detail in it is demonstrably false. You now expect me to tell you which that detail is, so that you can correct the only part of your story which I know to be false; is that reasonable? Come now, Mr. Reeves, tell me the whole story again, exactly as it happened, and I will see if I can help you.”

“I’m really very sorry, but I have already told you the truth to the best of my ability. I am afraid I could not alter my ‘story,’ as you call it, without falsification.”

“Well, I am afraid we seem to be at cross purposes. Perhaps it would be best if you conducted your researches independently, since we cannot agree?”

There was no mistaking the hint of the front door about this last suggestion. Reeves rose with what dignity he could muster, and took his leave. It must be regretfully admitted that Gordon received the account he gave of his experiences with tempestuous laughter; and Reeves was glad of that mantle of inaudibility which cuts off the motorcyclist from his sidecar when it is in motion.

Carmichael, who met them at the door of the club, was more sympathetic. In his view, Miss Rendall-Smith had given the photograph to Davenant, not realizing his identity with Brotherhood, and had thought it impossible that Davenant should have allowed so precious a document to pass out of his possession. But he was in high spirits, having made, he said, a little discovery of his own.

“You know you told me about your efforts to identify the book from which the cipher was taken⁠—the cipher on the postcard? Well, you went the right way to work, but not, if you will excuse my saying so, taking all the possibilities into account. Supposing that Brotherhood had the actual book with him in the carriage when he left London, you have to remember that he changed at Paston Oatvile. Now, I asked myself, what if, from some carelessness or want of interest, he should have left the book in that first-class railway carriage? That train, you see, stops for good at Paston Oatvile, and is cleaned out there the same night.”

“Of course. I was a fool not to think of that.”

“Well, I went off to the station while you were away, and repeated your own trick.”

“Selecting an imaginary book of your own, I suppose?”

“No; it is always better to put one story about the countryside rather than two. I said that a friend of mine had lost a copy of The Sorrows of Satan, and was anxious to recover it. The porter referred me to another porter, the other porter, to be accurate, and he informed me that he had found, in that train, a copy of a book called Immorality.”

“But there isn’t a book called that.”

“I know. Many might be, but none are. However, I saw what was up. The porter, by a train of thought which I find myself unable to follow, had taken the book home to his wife: and it was no surprise to me when she produced a copy of Momerie’s Immortality. It had been a disappointment to her, it seemed, and she made no difficulty about parting with it.”

“But have you any reason for thinking it’s the book we’re looking for?”

“Yes. There are a lot of lines down the side, queries and shriek-marks occasionally, which convince me that the thing was in Brotherhood’s hands. Only, of course, we want your copy of the cipher to read it from.”

“Excellent man. Let’s come up at once. I ought to be able to lay my hands on it, though I can never be certain. I play a perpetual game with the maid who does my rooms; she always seems to think that documents are more easy to deal with if they’re piled up in a great heap, instead of lying scattered about. Every morning I disarrange them, and the next morning, as sure as fate, they are piled up again.” They had reached Reeves’ room by now. “Let’s see; that’s the Income Tax, and that’s my aunt, and that’s that man⁠ ⁠… Ha! what’s this? No⁠ ⁠… No⁠ ⁠… this can’t be it⁠ ⁠… well, I’m dashed! The thing seems to have gone.”

“You’re sure you didn’t keep it in your pocket?”

“I don’t think so⁠ ⁠… No, it’s not there. Look here, I’ll go through them again⁠ ⁠… You know, it’s a very rum thing, because I took another look at that cipher only last night.”

“And now it’s gone. Anything else missing?”

“Not that I can see. Oh, I say, this is the limit! First of all I got the cipher without the key, and then I get the key without the cipher.”

“How like life,” suggested Gordon.

“What’s this? ‘Hold it and thoughts with the⁠ ⁠…’ oh, splendid! Look here, I worked the cipher out all wrong in this beastly Formation of Character book. But when I did that, I turned down all the pages I wanted, and underlined the significant words. So old Watson will come in useful after all. Hang on one moment⁠—yes, here it is. Now, ready? The word ‘hold’ is the fifth word on the seventh line of page 8. What’s that in Momerie?”

“That’s ‘you.’ It sounds all right for the beginning of a message.”

And so they worked it out, this time more fruitfully. When the process was complete, Carmichael had a half-sheet in front of him on which the words appeared, “You will perish if you go back upon your faith.”

“Yes,” said Gordon meditatively. “That’s too good to be mere coincidence. That was the message⁠—was it a threat or a warning?⁠—which was sent to Brotherhood, and old Brotherhood worked it out, presumably, in his Momerie, but wasn’t in time to profit by it. The only thing is, now we’ve got it, it doesn’t seem to get us much further.”

“It means, I suppose,” said Carmichael, “that Brotherhood had promised to do something, and was trying to back out of it.”

“Possibly that,” said Reeves.

“Why possibly? What else could it mean?”

“Oh, I don’t know⁠ ⁠… No, of course; that’s it. But, as Gordon says, it doesn’t seem to get us much further.”

“Not in itself,” agreed Carmichael. “But meanwhile it has incidentally provided us with an extra clue.”

“What’s that?” asked Gordon.

“I’ll tell you some other time. I say, it’s time for luncheon. Let’s go down.”

And it was not till they were downstairs that he explained his meaning. “The other clue is the disappearance of the cipher. There’s more in that than meets the eye, unless I’m mistaken.”