Free Mr. J. G. Reeder Returns by Edgar Wallace

Reeder.
    “None. Would you like to see the vault?”
    Mr Reeder followed him along the broad corridor of the castle into a little room which apparently was the major’s study, and through a steel door, which he unlocked, into a small lobby, illuminated by a skylight heavily criss-crossed with steel bars. There was another steel door, and beyond this they came to a narrow stone passage which led to the treasure house proper.
    It was a huge concrete and steel safe, placed within four walls. The only adjunct to the building was a small kitchenette, where the guards sat, and this was immediately opposite the steel door of the vault.
    “I think we’re entitled to call it a vault,” said the major, “because it is sunk some five feet below the level on which we are at present – one goes down steps to the interior–”
    Mr Reeder was looking round.
    “Where is the guard?” he asked.
    The major spread out his hands, despair in his good-looking face.
    “I’m afraid I lost my head, after what you told me. I dismissed them with a month’s wages and packed them off the moment I came back. It was stupid of me, because I’m sure they are trustworthy, but once you’ve become suspicious of men in whom you’ve placed the greatest confidence, I think it is best to make a clean sweep.”
    Mr Reeder examined the steel door carefully.
    He saw, however, at a glance that only the most expert of bank-smashers could have forced his way into the treasure chamber, and then only with the aid of modern scientific instruments. It was certainly not a one-man job, and decidedly no task for an amateur.
    He came back to the house, his hands thrust into his pockets, the inevitable umbrella hooked on his arm, his high-crowned hat on the back of his head. He stopped to admire one of the pieces of statuary which lined the broad hall.
    “A very old house,” he said. “I am interested in the manor houses of England. Is there any possibility of looking over the place?”
    Major Olbude hesitated.
    “There’s no reason why you shouldn’t,” he said. “Some of the rooms, of course, are locked up; in fact, we only use one wing.”
    They went from room to room. The drawing room was empty. He saw on a low table a book. It was open in the middle, and lying face down on the table; a book that had been put aside by somebody who was so interested in the story that they were anxious to continue at the place they left off. Near by was a pair of reading glasses and a case. He made no comment, and went on to the dining room, with its Elizabethan panels and deep mullioned windows; stopped to admire the carved crest of the original owner of the building, and listened intently while Major Olbude told him the history of Sevenways.
    “You don’t wish to see upstairs?”
    “I should rather like to. The old sleeping apartments in these manor houses have a singular interest for me. I am – um – something of a student of architecture,” said Mr Reeder untruthfully.
7
    At the head of the grand stairway stretched a passage from which opened the principal bedrooms.
    “This is my niece’s room.”
    He threw open a door and showed a rather gloomy-looking apartment with a four-poster bed.
    “As I say, she went to Paris this morning–”
    “And left everything very tidy,” murmured Mr Reeder. “It’s such a pleasure to find that trait in a young lady.”
    There was no sign that the room had been lived in and there was a slight mustiness about it.
    “There’s little or nothing in this other wing, except my bedroom,” said the major, leading the way past the staircase.
    He was walking more quickly, but Mr Reeder stopped opposite a doorway.
    “There’s one remark that was made by a Frenchman about an English manor house in the reign of Charles,” he said sententiously. “Do you speak – er – French, Major?”
    Now, the remarkable thing about Major Olbude was that he did not speak French. He had a knowledge of Greek and of Latin, but modern languages