"Sorry to take you out of your way, Mr. Rodd," Brodie said, with ponderous sarcasm, "but we just want you to call for a moment at the Marlborough Street police-station. In the meantime, you wouldn't care to tell us, I suppose, what you have in that small parcel you are holding so carefully?" Aaron Rodd sat perfectly still. A chain of wild ideas flashed through his brain, only to be instantly dismissed. He thought of throwing the parcel out of the window, hurling himself upon the two men and making a fierce struggle for liberty. There was something ignominious in the facility of his capture, in the completeness of his failure. Yet he realised perfectly well that escape by any means was hopeless, that behaviour of any sort incompatible with his supposed position would be an instant confession of guilt. "I am engaged on confidential business on behalf of a client," he announced stiffly, "and I cannot conceive what authority you have to delay me or to ask me questions." Mr. Brodie nodded sympathetically. "That's perfectly correct," he admitted, "perfectly correct." Not another word was spoken until the cab drew up outside the police-station. Mr. Brodie paid the taxicab driver, and Aaron Rodd, with an escort on either side of him, crossed the pavement, passed through the bare stone hall and into a small waiting-room. A superintendent, who was writing at a desk, glanced up as they entered. Mr. Brodie leaned down and said a few words in his ear. The former nodded and turned to Aaron Rodd. "Have you any objection," he asked, "to our examining the parcel which you are carrying?" "None whatever," Aaron Rodd answered coolly. Mr. Brodie took it from him and carried it to the desk. The superintendent broke the seals and withdrew the lid from an oblong wooden jeweller's box. There was a mass of cotton-wool inside, which he hastily removed. Then his fingers suddenly stopped. He gazed downwards and frowned. Mr. Brodie's face was a study. The imprecations which broke from his lips were transatlantic and sufficing. Aaron Rodd, emboldened by their consternation, stepped forward and looked over their shoulders. At the bottom of the box reposed a small, black opal scarf-pin, the safety-chain of which was broken. The superintendent rose to his feet, whispered something sharply to Mr. Brodie, who lapsed into a gloomy silence, and turned to Aaron Rodd. "Do you mind telling me where you were taking this box, Mr. Rodd?" he asked. "To a jeweller's, to have the pin mended," was the prompt reply. The superintendent replaced the wadding, thrust the lid back along its grooves, tied up the box and returned it to its owner. "We are very sorry to have interfered with your mission," he said, "but before you leave us I am going to ask you, so that we may be perfectly satisfied, to allow me to search your person." Aaron Rodd shrugged his shoulders. "Pray do as you will," he consented, holding out his arms.