Lieutenant Valcour poked around among the papers.
“It isn’t here in this secretary, either.”
“Well, I don’t know where it is, Lieutenant. It was there this afternoon.”
“I don’t know where it is either, Mr. Smith, but I’m going to find out.”
“Go ahead.”
“Where was it you saw it this afternoon? On this secretary?”
“Yes.”
Lieutenant Valcour’s search of the secretary was swift and thorough. The pigeonholes, the drawers yielded no stiletto of Damascus steel. Hidden in one of the drawers was a copy of the Oxford Book of English Verse . That interested him momentarily. He gave it sufficient attention to note that the most used portion included the Sonnets of Shakespeare. But there was no time now—no time.
“I’m going through the rooms here,” he said, “and look for that stiletto.”
“You’ll be exceeding your authority if you do, Lieutenant.”
“Have you any objections?” Lieutenant Valcour asked quietly.
Mr. Smith grew almost fervent in his protestations that he had none. Why should he? He had nothing to conceal, nor had Hollander. Of course, there were a bottle or two of gin and a quart of Scotch, but he didn’t imagine the lieutenant would be interested in anything along that line. No, the lieutenant assured him, he wouldn’t be. Liquor was not in his province. Then it would be all right to go ahead and search? Lieutenant Valcour wanted to know. Oh, quite.
In spite of his verbal acquiescence Mr. Smith followed Lieutenant Valcour through the two other rooms of the apartment with a gradually