"You seem to be an ascetic," said Hannasyde dryly.
"Hedonist. Personal contacts pleasant at first, but leading to discomfort."
Hannasyde regarded him frowningly. "You have peculiar ideas, Mr. Fletcher. They're not getting us anywhere."
A smile flickered in Neville's eyes. "Eschew my company. You see, I don't want to get anywhere. Prolonged intercourse with me is bad for your temper."
"You are probably right," returned Hannasyde with a touch of asperity: "I won't detain you any longer."
"Oh, can I go back to my entrancing reporters?"
"If you think it wise - or desirable."
"Like feeding goldfish," said Neville, drifting out by way of the window.
The Sergeant watched him go, and drew a long breath. "What I call a turn in himself," he said. "He's certainly a new one on me."
Hannasyde grunted. The Sergeant cocked an intelligent eye at him. "You didn't take to him, did you, Chief?"