For, next instant, I made up my mind to eat “humble pie.” I wouldn’t waste a minute in finding the chief. I would make a straightforward apology and ask him to reinstate me.
Of course, it was long past office hours, but I decided not to let my resolution cool.
I knew where Chief Garth lived, and could count pretty well upon his being at home; for that little wife of his held him snug enough by her whenever he wasn’t personally engaged on an important case.
So I bolted my meal, and caught the ferryboat which landed at East Ninety-ninth Street. I even took a taxi to his house, so firmly did my new resolution grip me.
Finally we whirled the last corner, and brought up sharp before Chief Garth’s house, which was brilliantly enough indicated by a Welsbach light in the vestibule.
It showed the number plainly, and, just as I stepped from the cab and paid my fare, it showed more. For, at this moment, the door opened. I heard a word or two exchanged; then the door closed, and a man came down the stoop as hurriedly as a slight limp would let him.
He passed close by me as I was about to mount the steps, and I experienced that uncomfortable sensation of having seen him some time, but no more. Such a haunting inability to spot my man is one of my worst points as a detective.
“Anyway,” thought I, “whoever he is, he’s in about as bad a temper as I’ve ever seen ’em.”
With that I rang, and was admitted by a negress. It wasn’t another minute before I was ushered into the chief’s den.
He was pacing up and down, puffing violently at a fat cigar. From his first word, I knew him well enough to know that he was anything but displeased at my showing up.