The elevator-boy informed Haggerty that Mr. Forbes had just returned from the theater.  Alone?  Yes.  Haggerty pushed the bell-button.  A dog bayed.

“Why, Haggerty, what’s up?  Come on in.  Be still, Fritz!”

The dachel’s growl ended in a friendly snuffle, and he began to dance upon Haggerty’s broad-toed shoes.

“Bottle of beer?  Cigar?  Take that easy chair.  What’s on your mind tonight?” Forbes rattled away.  “Why, man, there’s a cut on the side of your head!”

“Uhuh.  Got any witch-hazel?” The detective sat down, stretched out his legs, and pulled the dachel’s ears.

Forbes ran into the bathroom to fetch the witch-hazel.  Haggerty poured a little into his palm and dabbled the wound with it.

“Now, spin it out; tell me what’s happened,” said Forbes, filling his calabash and pushing the cigars across the table.

For a year and a half these two men, the antitheses of each other, had been intimate friends.  This liking was genuine, based on secret admiration, as yet to be confessed openly.  Forbes had always been drawn toward this man-hunting business; he yearned to rescue the innocent and punish the guilty.  Whenever a great crime was committed he instantly overflowed with theories as to what the criminal was likely to do afterward.  Haggerty enjoyed listening to his patter; and often there were illuminating flashes which obtained results for the detective, who never applied his energies in the direction of logical deduction.  Besides, the chairs in the studio were comfortable, the imported beer not too cold, and the cigars beyond criticism.

Haggerty accepted a cigar, lighted it, and amusedly watched the eager handsome face of the artist.

“Any poker lately?”

“No; cut it out for six months.  Come on, now; don’t keep me waiting any longer.”

“Mum’s th’ word?”—­tantalizingly.

“You ought to know that by this time”—­aggrieved.

Haggerty tossed the bunch of keys on the table.

“Ha!  Good specimens, these,” Forbes declared, handling them.  “Here’s a window-opener.”

“Good boy!” said Haggerty, as a teacher would have commended a bright pupil.

“And a door-chain lifter.  Nothing lacking.  Did he hit you with these?”

“Ye-up.”

“What are these regular keys for?”

“One o’ them unlocks a door.”  Haggerty smoked luxuriously.

Forbes eyed the ordinary keys with more interest than the burglarious ones.  Haggerty was presently astonished to see the artist produce his own key-ring.

“What now?”

“When Crawford went abroad he left a key with me.  I am making some drawings for an Egyptian romance and wanted to get some atmosphere.”

“Uhuh.”

“Which key is it that unlocks a door?” asked Forbes, his eyes sparkling.

“Never’ll get that out o’ your head, will you?”