"My name is Inspector Groombridge," said the spokesman of the two. "I
have been instructed to place you under arrest."

"Me! Under arrest? What on earth have I done? There must be some
mistake."

Bobby was horrified.

"Those are my instructions, Mr. Froelich, and I am afraid I must ask you
to come with me. My colleague, Sub-inspector Dane, is to remain here in
possession, and I am afraid I must ask you to hand him your keys."

"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