The detective led the way into the building, and opened the door leading into a large, barely furnished office.
“Chief’s gone home for the night, I guess,” he remarked. “We can fix up a shakedown for you in one of the rooms behind.”
“I thank you,” Mr. Sabin said, sitting down in a high-backed wooden chair; “I decline to move until the charge against me is properly explained.”
“There is no one here to do it just now,” the man answered. “Better make yourself comfortable for a bit.”
“You detain me here, then,” Mr. Sabin said, “without even a sight of your warrant or any intimation as to the charge against me?”
“Oh, the chief’ll fix all that,” the man answered. “Don’t you worry.”
Mr. Sabin smiled.
In a magnificently furnished apartment somewhere in the neighbourhood of Fifth Avenue a small party of men were seated round a card table piled with chips and rolls of bills. On the sideboard there was a great collection of empty bottles, spirit decanters and Vichy syphons. Mr. Horser was helping himself to brandy and water with one hand and holding himself up with the other. There was a knock at the door.
A man who was still playing looked up. He was about fifty years of age, clean shaven, with vacuous eyes and a weak mouth. He was the host of the party.
“Come in!” he shouted.