The young constable admitted that Sergeant Gubbins was about.
"I'll see him," said Mr. Amberley, striking a match.
The constable looked at him with disfavour. The hard eyes glanced up over the bowl of the pipe. "Rather quickly," said Mr. Amberley.
"I don't know about that, sir," said the constable stiffly. "I'll speak to the sergeant."
He withdrew, and Mr. Amberley strolled over to the wall to inspect a poster describing the delights in store for all those willing to purchase a ticket for the annual police concert.
The door at the end of the room which had the word PRIVATE painted forbiddingly on the frosted glass opened to admit the egress of a burly individual with very fierce moustache and a red face. "Well, sir, what can I do for you?" said this personage in a voice calculated to strike awe into the hearts of malefactors.
Mr. Amberley turned. "Evening, Sergeant," he said.
The sergeant abandoned his severity. "Well, Mr. Amberley, sir!" he said. "I haven't seen you down in these parts, not for six months. I hope I see you well, sir? Anything I can do for you?"
"Oh, no!" said Mr. Amberley. "But I thought you'd like to know there's a dead man on the Pittingly Road."
The constable, who had gone back to his place by the desk, gasped at this, but the sergeant took it in good part.