arm.

I followed, I don't mind saying in some excitement. I had a vision of
grabbing him from behind and leading him--or pushing him, under the
circumstances, in triumph to the police station, and another mental
picture, not so pleasant, of being found on the pavement by some
passer-by, with a small punctuation mark ending my sentence of life. But
I was not apprehensive. I even remember wondering humorously if I should
overtake him and press the cold end of my silver mounted fountain pen
into the nape of his neck, if he would throw up his hands and surrender.
I had read somewhere of a burglar held up in a similar way with a
shoe-horn.

Our pace was easy. Once the man just ahead stopped and lighted a
cigarette, and the odor of a very fair Turkish tobacco came back to me.
He glanced back over his shoulder at me and went on without quickening
his pace. We met no policemen, and after perhaps five minutes walking,
when the strain was growing tense, my gentleman of the rubber-soled
shoes swung abruptly to the left, and--entered the police station!

I had occasion to see Davidson many times after that, during the strange
development of the Fleming case; I had the peculiar experience later of
having him follow me as I had trailed him that night, and I had occasion
once to test the strength of his long arms when he helped to thrust me
through the transom at the White Cat, but I never met him without a
recurrence of the sheepish feeling with which I watched him swagger up
to the night sergeant and fall into easy conversation with the man
behind the desk. Standing in the glare from the open window, I had much
the lost pride and self contempt of a wet cat sitting in the sun.

Two or three roundsmen were sitting against the wall, lazily, helmets
off and coats open against the warmth of the early spring night. In a
back room others were playing checkers and disputing noisily. Davidson's
voice came distinctly through the open windows.

"The house is closed," he reported. "But one of the basement windows
isn't shuttered and the lock is bad. I couldn't find Shields. He'd
better keep an eye on it." He stopped and fished in his pockets with a
grin. "This was tied to the knob of the kitchen door," he said, raising
his voice for the benefit of the room, and holding aloft a piece of
paper. "For Shields!" he explained, "and signed 'Delia.'"

The men gathered around him, even the sergeant got up and leaned
forward, his elbows on his des