“My keys?” Bobby felt in his pockets. “What sort of keys do you mean?” He pulled a gold chain out of his pocket to which were attached his latchkey and a few others. He held them in his hand, and ticked them off one by one mechanically. “This is the key of the cupboard where I keep my cigars and liqueurs; this is the key of my dispatch-box. I don’t think I’ve got anything else locked up.” “Have you no safe, no desk or other receptacle where you keep your papers, Mr. Froelich--documents of any kind?” “Papers--documents?” ejaculated Bobby. “No, I haven’t got any documents or papers. What do you mean?” “Well, I’m afraid it will be the duty of Sub-inspector Dane to search your apartment, Mr. Froelich, and I want to save you from having anything broken open if it can be avoided.” “There is nothing to break open. I don’t lock anything up except cigars and things of that kind, and as to my dispatch-box, there’s not much there either. I hardly know what there is--I haven’t looked inside it for ever so long. There may be a few private letters.” “What sort of letters?” asked the inspector. To Bobby this sounded menacing. “Oh, I don’t know; perhaps there may be one or two--well, what shall I call them?--love letters, I suppose. Anyhow, here are the keys.” He handed them over to the other man as he spoke. “Call a cab.” The inspector spoke to his subordinate. “I say,” asked Bobby apprehensively, “am I going to be locked up?” The inspector hesitated slightly. Bobby’s innocence seemed to strike him. He was not the sort of person he was used to arresting. “I am afraid it’s more than likely, Mr. Froelich.” “Can’t I change my clothes?” queried Bobby. “You see, I’ve got on evening dress, and I suppose I shan’t have a chance of getting out of it.” The inspector reflected a moment. “Oh yes, Mr. Froelich. I don’t see why you should not change, but I’m afraid I must ask you to let me accompany you.” “Well, I’m--D’you think I’m going to try and escape?” “Oh, I don’t say that, Mr. Froelich, but sometimes things happen on these occasions, and it’s my duty to be on the safe side. I’m sorry to inconvenience you.” “Come on in, then.” Bobby led the way into his dressing-room, and in a few minutes he was rolling off with his strange companion to some destination unknown. After the most uncomfortable night Bobby had ever spent in his life he was escorted next morning by Sub-inspector Dane to Scotland Yard. He was ushered into a waiting-room, and there he sat with the inspector, waiting until he should be summoned before the Assistant Commissioner. Had he been able to see what was going on in the adjoining room, he would have been exceedingly surprised. The Assistant Commissioner, one of those public servants whose quiet, unobtrusive manner covers a strong character and a great efficiency, was sitting at his table talking to Harold Clancey. They were in earnest consultation.