“Look here,” I said, “this is important.  I want to talk to the city editor—­and be quick about it.”

There was an instant’s astonished silence.

“What name?” asked the voice.

“Lester, of Royce and Lester—­and you might tell your city editor that Godfrey is a close friend of mine.”

The city editor seemed to understand, for I was switched on to him a moment later.  But he was scarcely more satisfactory.

“We sent Godfrey up into Westchester to see a man,” he said, “on a tip that looked pretty good.  He started just as soon as he got his Pigot story written, and he ought to be back almost any time.  Is there a message I can give him?”

“Yes—­tell him Pigot is at the Twenty-third Street station, and that he’d better come up as soon as he can.”

“Very good.  I’ll give him the message the moment he comes in.”

“Thank you,” I said, but the disappointment was a bitter one.

In the street again, I paused hesitatingly at the curb, my eyes on the red light of the police station.  What was about to happen there?  What was the sensation M. Pigot had up his sleeve?  Had I any excuse for being present?

And then, remembering Grady’s nod and his wobbly legs—­remembering, too, that, at the worst, he could only put me out!—­I turned toward the light, pushed open the door and entered.

There was no one in sight except the sergeant at the desk.

“My name is Lester,” I said.  “You have a cabinet here belonging to the estate of the late Philip Vantine.”

“We’ve got a cabinet, all right; but I don’t know who it belongs to.”

“It belongs to Mr. Vantine’s estate.”

“Well, what about it?” he asked, looking at me to see if I was drunk.  “You haven’t come in here at midnight to tell me that, I hope?”

“No; but I’d like to see the cabinet a minute.”

“You can’t see it to-night.  Come around to-morrow.  Besides, I don’t know you.”

“Here’s my card.  Either Mr. Simmonds or Mr. Grady would know me.  And to-morrow won’t do.”

The sergeant took the card, looked at it, and looked at me.

“Wait a minute,” he said, at last, and disappeared through a door at the farther side of the room.  He was gone three or four minutes, and the station-clock struck twelve as I stood there.  I counted the sonorous, deliberate strokes, and then, in the silence that followed, my hands began to tremble with the suspense.  Suppose Grady should refuse to see me?  But at last the sergeant came back.

“Come along,” he said, opening the gate in the railing and motioning me through.  “Straight on through that door,” he added, and sat down again at his desk.

With a desperate effort at careless unconcern, I opened the door and passed through.  Then, involuntarily, I stopped.  For there, in the middle of the floor, was the Boule cabinet, with M. Pigot standing beside it, and Grady and Simmonds sitting opposite, flung carelessly back in their chairs, and puffing at black cigars.