The sergeant looked round left and right.
"I am going to see Mr. Minute on a matter of business," he said, "and you needn't mention the fact."
"I keep myself to myself," began Constable Wiseman. "What I see with one eye goes out of the other, in the manner of speaking—"
The sergeant nodded, stepped on to his bicycle again, turned it about, and went at full speed down the gentle incline toward Weald Lodge. He made no secret of his visit, but rode through the wide gates up the gravel drive to the front of the house, rang the bell, and to the servant who answered demanded peremptorily to see Mr. Minute.
John Minute received him in the library, where the previous interviews had taken place. Minute waited until the servant had gone and the door was closed, and then he said:
"Now, Crawley, there's no sense in coming to me; I can do nothing for you."
The sergeant put his helmet on the table, walked to a sideboard where a tray and decanter stood, and poured himself out a stiff dose of whisky without invitation. John Minute watched him without any great resentment. This was not civilized Eastbourne they were in. They were back in the old free-and-easy days of Gwelo, where men did not expect invitations to drink.
Smith—or Crawley, to give him his real name—tossed down half a tumbler of neat whisky and turned, wiping his heavy mustache with the back of his hand.
"So you can't do anything, can't you?" he mimicked. "Well, I'm going to show you that you can, and that you will!"