Already he had forgotten one little thing which might have caused him embarrassment, and might still do so, for that matter. He had meant to offer some plausible explanation of his failure to let himself in with a latchkey, but he had forgotten all about it at the time, and now it might seem strange if he brought up the subject. He had not come straight to the house from the changing room on One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street, but had shown himself in one or two places where Nick was well known, his idea being to see if his disguise would pass inspection elsewhere before submitting himself to the scrutiny of Nick’s household. That had consumed some time; consequently, the luncheon hour was near when he arrived at the house. He was on fire with eagerness to rummage in Nick’s desk, hunt about in his file cases, and rifle his safe, but he knew that he could not accomplish much before lunch, and he did not wish to make himself conspicuous by passing over that meal. Perhaps he could accomplish something, however. With that idea in view, he approached one of the detective’s metal file cases. The drawers were locked, but he found a means of opening them, and the drawer he first pulled out was that devoted to the letter “G.” A few moments spent in thumbing over the big cards filed there brought the desired one to light. It was that devoted to himself, and bore, in addition to a lot of closely written information, a photograph and a set of facsimile finger prints. Gordon seemed to take a grim delight in reading the accurate description of himself, and the careful details concerning his career, characteristic methods, and so on. “Not bad!” he muttered presently. “In fact, it’s a little too true for comfort. I think I shall have to withdraw it.” And going over to the wastebasket, he deliberately tore the card into small bits and dropped them into the receptacle. After that he returned to the file case, fingered over some of the other cards, and then leaned thoughtfully on the opened drawer. “There are hundreds and thousands of cases recorded here,” he mused, “but apparently they are not the most important ones, and it’s safe to say that Carter isn’t keeping records of his most confidential affairs in such an easily accessible place. I have no doubt I could milk lots of these fellows for tidy little sums, but I’m after big game just now—not rabbits.” His gaze strayed in the direction of the detective’s safe, and a more calculating look came into his eyes. “I shouldn’t be surprised if you hold the records I’m looking for—or some of them,” he muttered aloud, addressing the big safe. “If not, you may contain something else of interest. At any rate, I’m going to find out, the first chance I get.” CHAPTER VI. AN INTERRUPTION.