Anthony leaned his arms on the window-sill and thrust head and shoulders into the room.
“Now, sergeant,” he said, “this sort of thing’ll never do, you know.”
The effect of his intrusion tickled pleasantly his sense of the dramatic. Law and Order recovered first, advanced, big with rage, to the window and demanded what was the meaning of the unprintable intrusion.
“Why,” said Anthony, “shall we call it a wish to study at close quarters the methods of the County Constabulary.”
“Who the—— ——ing ’ell are you?” The face of Sergeant Higgins was black with wrath.
“I,” said Anthony, “am Hawkshaw, the detective!”
Before another roar could break from outraged officialdom, the door of the room opened. A thick-set, middle-aged man of a grocerish air inquired briskly what was the trouble here.
Sergeant Higgins became on the instant a meek subordinate. “I—I didn’t know you were—were about, sir.” He stood stiff at attention. “Just questioning of a few witnesses, I was, sir. This er—gentleman”—he nodded in the direction of Anthony—“just pushed his ’ead——”
But Superintendent Boyd of the C.I.D. was shaking the interloper by the hand. He had recognised the head and shoulders as those of Colonel Gethryn. In 1917 he had been “lent” to Colonel Gethryn in connection with a great and secret “round-up” in and about London. For Colonel Gethryn Superintendent Boyd had liking and a deep respect.
“Well, well, sir,” he said, beaming. “Fancy seeing you. They didn’t tell me you were staying here.”