In manner he was tactful but persistent, his language was at times marked by a violent extravagance and he had had the distinction of having provoked, by certain correspondence which had seen the light, the comment of a former Home Secretary that “it was unfortunate that Mr. Meredith did not take his position with the seriousness which was expected from a public official.”
His language was, as I say, under great provocation, violent and unusual. He had a trick of using words which never were on land or sea, and illustrating his instruction or his admonition with the quaintest phraseology.
Now he was tilted back in his office chair at an alarming angle, scowling at his distressed subordinate who sat on the edge of a chair at the other side of his desk.
“But, T. X.,” protested the Inspector, “there was nothing to be found.”
It was the outrageous practice of Mr. Meredith to insist upon his associates calling him by his initials, a practice which had earnt disapproval in the highest quarters.
“Nothing is to be found!” he repeated wrathfully. “Curious Mike!”
He sat up with a suddenness which caused the police officer to start back in alarm.
“Listen,” said T. X., grasping an ivory paperknife savagely in his hand and tapping his blotting-pad to emphasize his words, “you're a pie!”
“I'm a policeman,” said the other patiently.
“A policeman!” exclaimed the exasperated T. X. “You're worse than a pie, you're a slud! I'm afraid I shall never make a detective of you,” he shook his head sorrowfully at the smiling Mansus who had been in the police force when T. X. was a small boy at school, “you are neither Wise nor Wily; you combine the innocence of a Baby with the grubbiness of a County Parson—you ought to be in the choir.”