"We are very sorry to have detained you, sir," he said, "the necessities of the law, you know. Inspector, get Mr. Rodd another taxi-cab."
"I know something about the law," Aaron Rodd declared, trying hard to feel that this was not some absurd nightmare, "and I still fail to realise on what possible authority you can practically arrest a solicitor leaving the house of an exceedingly distinguished client, break the seals of a private packet, and dismiss him without a word of explanation."
The superintendent glanced severely at Mr. Brodie.
"We are unfortunately in the position, Mr. Rodd," he confessed, "of having been misled by false information. We can do no more nor less than apologise. Our action, mistaken though it seems to have been, was undertaken in the interests of the law, with the profession of which you are connected. I hope, therefore, that you will be tolerant."
Aaron Rodd received his packet, wished the three men a brief "Good afternoon" and left the police-station. He drove at once to his office, where he found the poet reclining on three chairs drawn up to the window, with a block of paper in his hand and a pipe in his mouth.
"Where's Harvey Grimm?" Aaron demanded.
The poet laid down his pencil and waved his hand.
"Gone!"
"Gone? Where?"
"I have no idea," was the bland reply. "I spent an hour or two at the Milan, conversing with several friends, and incidentally looking out for Mr. Brodie. Then an idea came to me. I needed space and solitude. I thought of your empty rooms and I hastened here. If you would like to listen——"