“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?”