'YOU'RE A PRIVATE DETECTIVE, Mr Reeder?'
'More intimate than private,' murmured that gentleman. 'In these days of publicity one has little more than the privacy of a goldfish in his crystal habitation.'
The sergeant saw something in the wastepaper basket and pulled it out. It was a small loose-leafed book. There was another, indeed, many. He piled five on the table; but they were merely the covers and nothing more.
'Diaries,' said Mr Reeder gently. 'You will observe that each one is dingier than the other.'
'But how do you know they're diaries?' demanded the police officer testily.
'Because the word "diary" is printed on the inside covers,' said Mr Reeder, more gently than ever.
This proved to be the case, though the printing had been overlooked. Mr Reeder had not overlooked it; he h
