"Good. By the way, who will go with you?"
"Mr. Furneaux."
"Excellent. I leave matters in your hands, Superintendent. Let me hear the facts if you return to town before six."
Evidently the Roxton murder was one of the year's big events. It loomed large already in the official mind. Winter called up various departments in quick succession, gave a series of orders, sorted his letters hastily, thrusting some into a drawer and others into a basket on the table, and was lighting a cigar when the door opened and his trusted aide, Detective Inspector Furneaux, entered.
"Ha!" cackled the newcomer; for Winter had confided to him, only the day before, certain reasons why the habit of smoking to excess was injurious, and his (Winter's) resolve to cut down the day's cigars to three, one after each principal meal.
"Circumstances alter cases," said the Superintendent blandly, scrutinizing the Havana to make sure that the outer leaf was burning evenly. "You and I are off for a jaunt in the country, Charles, and the sternest disciplinarian unbends during holiday time."
"Scotland Yard, as well as the other place, is paved with good intentions," said Furneaux.
Winter stooped, and took a couple of automatic pistols from a drawer in the desk at which he was seated.
"Put one of those in your pocket," he said.
Again did his colleague smile derisively.