The three men walked to the main door. While Ellery and Sampson were silently surveying the always depressing scene of an untenanted auditorium, Queen spoke rapidly to Velie, giving orders in an undertone. Finally he turned and said, “Well, gentlemen, that’s all for to-night. Let’s be going.” On the sidewalk a number of policemen had roped off a large space, behind which a straggling crowd of curiosity-seekers was gaping. “Even at two o’clock in the morning these night-birds patrol Broadway,” grunted Sampson. With a wave of the hand he entered his automobile after the Queens politely refused his offer of a “lift.” A crowd of businesslike reporters pushed through the lines and surrounded the two Queens. “Here, here! What’s this, gentlemen?” asked the old man, frowning. “How about the low-down on to-night’s job, Inspector?” asked one of them urgently. “You’ll get all the information you want, boys, from Detective-Sergeant Velie—inside.” He smiled as they charged in a body through the glass doors. Ellery and Richard Queen stood silently on the curb, watching the policemen herd back the crowd. Then the old man said with a sudden wave of weariness, “Come on, son, let’s walk part of the way home.” PART TWO _“....To illustrate: Once young Jean C—— came to me after a month of diligent investigation on a difficult assignment. He wore a forlorn expression. Without a word he handed me a slip of official paper. I read it in surprise. It was his resignation._ _“‘Here, Jean!’ I cried. ‘What is the meaning of this?’_ _“‘I have failed, M. Brillon,’ he muttered. ‘A month’s work, gone to the devil. I have been on the wrong track. It is a disgrace.’_ _“‘Jean, my friend,’ said I solemnly, ‘this for your resignation.’ Wherewith I tore it to hits before his astonished eyes. ‘Go now,’ I admonished him, ‘and begin from the beginning. For remember always the maxim: He who would know right must first know wrong!’”_ —_From_ Reminiscences of a Prefect, _By_ Auguste Brillon. CHAPTER VIII IN WHICH THE QUEENS MEET MR. FIELD’S VERY BEST FRIEND The Queens’ apartment on West 87th Street was a man’s domicile from the pipe-rack over the hearth to the shining sabres on the wall. They lived on the top floor of a three-family brownstone house, a relic of late Victorian times. You walked up the heavily-carpeted stairs through seemingly endless halls of dismal rectitude. When you were quite convinced that only mummified souls could inhabit such a dreary place, you came upon the huge oaken door marked, “The Queens”—a motto lettered neatly and framed. Then Djuna grinned at you from behind a crack and you entered a new world.