“Have you a room here that I can have to myself for ten minutes or so, sergeant?”
“Yes, Sir Clinton. This way.”
“This will do all right,” the Chief Constable said, after a glance at the place. “By the way, sergeant, send a man out at once to get me a small table vice—you know these portable things—at the ironmonger’s. I saw one in the window as I passed. And wait a moment—can you smoke Navy Cut? Good. Then get a couple of small tins as well.”
Considerably mystified, the sergeant executed his orders; and when the various articles had been procured, Sir Clinton closed the door behind him and set to work. His task took him rather longer than he expected, but at last it was done to his satisfaction. He called his subordinate in again.
“A glass of water, sergeant, if you please.”
When this was brought, he shut the door again. Some minutes later he came out and called the sergeant.
“Here’s your Navy Cut, sergeant. I’m sorry I can’t give you the tins.”
The sergeant, completely at a loss to understand these proceedings, thanked him in a dazed fashion and began to sweep the tobacco from the table into his pouch.
“How far is it to Whistlefield?” Sir Clinton inquired.
On learning the distance he borrowed a bicycle from one of the constables.