“Is what he says O.K., Judge?” queried Lieutenant Sullivan.  “He ain’t the man you want arrested?”

“He is not,” the Judge managed to get out.

“From the way you hesitated—­”

“The Judge’s hesitation, Lieutenant,” Mr. Pyecroft interrupted in his pleasant tone, “was due to his amazement at the utter grotesqueness of the situation.  He was for a moment utterly taken aback.  That’s it, isn’t it, Judge?”

“Yes,” said Judge Harvey.

The lieutenant twisted his derby in chagrined, ireful hands.

“Some of my men have been damned fools again!” he exploded.  He got himself back under control.  “Judge Harvey, I hope you’ll excuse our buttin’ in like this—­and—­and won’t find it necessary to mention it to the heads of the department.”

“It’s—­it’s all right,” said the Judge.

“And you, Mr.—­Mr.—­”

“Simpson—­Archibald Simpson,” supplied Mr. Pyecroft.

“Mr. Simpson, I hope you don’t mind this too much?”

“No ill feeling at all, Lieutenant,” Mr. Pyecroft said graciously.  “Such little mistakes must occasionally occur in the most careful police work.”

“And—­and—­there’s another thing,” said Lieutenant Sullivan with a note of gruff pleading.  “You know how the papers are roasting the department just now.  For every little slip, we get the harpoon or the laugh.  I’ll be obliged to you if you don’t say anything that’ll let this thing get into the papers.”

“Believe me, Lieutenant, I shall do everything in my power to protect you,” Mr. Pyecroft assured him.  “And now, since the matter is settled,” he added pleasantly, “perhaps you’d like to have Matilda show you the way out.  These upper hallways are really very confusing.  Matilda, my dear,—­if you don’t mind.”

Wordlessly, Matilda obeyed, and four sets of policemen’s feet went heavily down the stairs.  Beneath her bedclothes Mrs. De Peyster began faintly, ever so faintly, to return to life.  Judge Harvey glared at Mr. Pyecroft, hands spasmodically clutching and unclutching; his look grew darker and darker.  Respectful, regretful, Mr. Pyecroft stood waiting.

His left forefinger had not lost the place in “Wormwood.”

CHAPTER XVIII

THE THIRD FLIGHT

The storm broke.

“You are a scoundrel, sir!” thundered the Judge.

“I fear, sir, you are right,” respectfully assented Mr. Pyecroft.

“And what’s more, you’ve made me lie to the police!”

“Not exactly, sir,” Mr. Pyecroft corrected mildly.  “I was careful about that.  I did not ask you to deny that I was Thomas Preston.  I merely asked you if I was the man you wished arrested.  You answered that you did not want me arrested; under the circumstances I am certain you spoke the truth.  And in explaining your hesitation to the lieutenant, when you said it was due to your utter amazement at the grotesqueness of the situation, I am certain you there also spoke the truth.”