Mr. J. G. Reeder Returns by Edgar Wallace

incur undesirable publicity for my niece. When I visited the treasure house this morning I found that four of the containers were empty. You asked me if you might see the vault, and I refused. I think it was stupid of me; and now, if you wish, I can throw a great deal of light, not only upon the robbery, but upon the disappearance of this wretched man–”
    “Let me tell you something,” said Reeder. “It is an old story, part of which was told me by a boy from your school, and part I have unearthed in my own way.”
    The major licked his dry lips.
    “It is a story about a namesake of yours,” Reeder went on, “a rather clever man, who had a commission in the Territorial Army. He was, in fact, of your rank, and if I remember rightly, his Christian name was – um – Digby.”
    He saw the colour fade from Olbude’s face and heard his quick breathing.
    “He was, unhappily, a victim of the narcotic habit,” said Mr Reeder, not taking his eyes from the man’s face, “and I will do him this justice, that he was heartily ashamed of his weakness and when he sank, as he did sink, to the level of a peddler of cocaine, he took another name. I was responsible for his arrest, with several other people engaged in that beastly traffic; and to me he confided that he had very rich relations who might help him. He even mentioned the name of a brother-in-law named Lane Leonard. At this time he had reached, as I say, a pretty low level. I am not a philanthropist, but I have a weakness for helping the hopeless, and the more hopeless they are – such is my peculiar – um – perversity – the more I endeavour to produce miracles. I rarely succeed. I did not succeed with Major Digby Olbude. I kept in touch with him after he came out of prison, but he managed to drift away beyond my reach, and I did not hear of him again till I learned that he had died in St Pancras Infirmary. He was buried in the name of Smith, but, unhappily for everybody concerned, there was an old acquaintance of his in the hospital at the same time, and this old acquaintance formed the link by which Lidgett was able to trace this unfortunate man.”
    Olbude found his voice.
    “There are quite a large number of Olbudes in the world,” he said, “and Digby is a family name. He may have been a connection of mine.”
    “I don’t think he was any relation of yours,” said Mr Reeder gently. “I think I had better see Lidgett, and then I would like to telephone to Scotland Yard and bring down the officer in charge of the Buckingham case. I’m afraid it is going to be a rather unpleasant experience for you, my friend.”
    “I know nothing about Buckingham,” said the man huskily. “I had little to do with the guards. I saw them and paid them, and that is all.”
    “When you say ‘guards’ you mean ‘guard’,” said Mr Reeder. “There have been no keepers of the treasure house since shortly after Mr Lane Leonard’s death, the only man employed being Buckingham. It only needed the most elementary of inquiries to dispose of that absurd story. You have the key of the treasure house, by the way?”
    The other shook his head.
    “Suspended round your neck by a silver chain?” suggested Mr Reeder.
    “No,” said Olbude brusquely. “I have never had it. Lidgett has it.”
    Mr Reeder smiled.
    “Then there is all the more reason for interviewing that enterprising chauffeur,” he said.
    Pamela had stood silent through this exchange. There were significant gaps which she could fill.
    “Lidgett is in his room,” said Olbude at last. “I suppose it’s going to be very serious for me?”
    “I’m afraid it is,” said Reeder.
    The man bit his lip and stared out of the window.
    “Nothing can be very much worse than the humiliating life I have lived for the past few years,” he said. “I never dreamt that money and wealth could be purchased at such a ghastly price.”
    He looked at the girl with a quizzical smile.
    “In this precious treasure house there