“That is the exact number stolen from the Grand Duke,” remarked M. Pigot, and fell to counting.  The number was two hundred and ten.

“Mr. Shearrow has the receipt,” Godfrey added, and Shearrow took a paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and read the contents.

It proved to be not only a receipt, but a full statement of the facts of the case, without omitting the details of the robbery and the credit due the Record for the recovery of the diamonds.  Grady’s face grew redder and redder as the reading proceeded.

“I won’t sign no such testimonial as that,” he blustered.  “Not on your life I won’t!”

“You will sign it, will you not, M. Pigot?” asked Godfrey.

“Certainly,” said the Frenchman; “it is a recognition of your services very well deserved,” and he stepped forward and signed it with a flourish.

“Now, Simmonds,” said Godfrey.

“No you don’t!” broke in Grady.  “Stay where you are, Simmonds.  I forbid you to sign that.  Remember, I’m your superior officer.”

“No, he’s not, Simmonds,” said Godfrey, quietly.  “He hasn’t been an officer at all for an hour and more.”

Grady sprang to his feet, his eyes blazing, and strode toward Godfrey.

“What do you mean by that?” he shouted.

“I mean,” said Godfrey, looking him squarely in the eye, “that Mr. Shearrow and myself had a talk with the mayor this morning, and laid before him certain evidence in our possession—­this latest case among others—­and that your resignation was accepted at noon to-day.”

“My resignation!” snorted Grady.  “I never wrote one!”

“Tell the public that, if you want to,” retorted Godfrey coldly.  “That’s your affair.  You ought to have ’phoned it in when I told you to.  Now, Simmonds.”

Grady stood glaring about him an instant, like an enraged bull, and I half expected him to hurl himself on Godfrey; instead, he crushed his hat upon his head, strode to the door, jerked it open, and banged it behind him.

“Now, Simmonds,” Godfrey repeated, as the echo died away, and Simmonds came forward and signed.  I witnessed the signatures, and Godfrey, with more eagerness than he had shown in the whole affair, caught up the paper and sprang with it to the door.

“Get that down to the office, as quick as you can,” he said, to a man outside.  “I’ll ’phone instructions.  That,” he added, closing the door and turning back to us, “is my reward for all this—­or, rather, the Record’s reward.  And now, gentlemen, Mr. Shearrow has his car below, and I think we would better drive around to some safe-deposit box with this plunder.”

It was perhaps ten days afterwards that Godfrey dropped in to see me one evening.  I was just back from a week on Cape Cod, which had done me a world of good; and, I need hardly say, was glad to see him.

“You’re looking normal again,” he said, surveying me, as he sat down.  “I was worried about you for a while.”