But that was the Andrew McFardell whom his associates knew. That was the man who, for all his good police work, had failed to inspire any warmth of regard amongst those with whom he worked. That was why there was excitement, and anticipation, and a sense of quiet satisfaction in the thought of the trial that was to take place that morning.
Andrew McFardell took no thought for anything or anybody but himself.
As the last harsh note of the bugle died out on the crisp winter air McFardell sprang alertly from his bunk. He set his fur cap on his head and buttoned the shining buttons of his red jacket. Then, with a swift glance round the deserted room, he passed hurriedly out in response to the summons.
On the wooden side-walk just outside the Superintendent’s office Corporal McFardell sprang to “Attention” in response to the Sergeant-Major’s barking order. He felt that a hundred pairs of eyes were peering out at him, prompted by a curiosity that had little friendliness in it. He was under no illusion. Popularity with his comrades was a thing he had treated with quiet contempt. He had never concerned himself with their opinion. The only good opinion he had sought had been of those in authority over him. And now he knew he was about to learn the true value of the favour of the gods he had set up. He pulled himself together, and thrust every other thought aside, concentrating upon the task of combating regulations whose cold framing left him so little hope.
As the little procession lined up facing Superintendent Leedham Branch’s desk the Sergeant-Major snatched the fur cap from the prisoner’s head. It was a further indignity demanded by regulations.
The Superintendent was contemplating the charge sheet before him. He did not even glance at the prisoner. On either side of him and slightly behind his chair, stood the two Inspectors of his command. They were very definitely regarding the prisoner, but in that cold sphinx-like, unrecognising fashion which the discipline governing them all had taught them.
It was a bare, uninteresting room, with calsomined walls and a flooring of bare boards. There was just sufficient furnishing to meet the needs of administration. The Superintendent’s desk was a simple whitewood table, and the chair he occupied behind it was of bentwood. Immediately behind him stood a fireproof safe, and, distributed about, where necessary, stood other whitewood tables and bentwood chairs for the use of Inspectors and staff. The whole atmosphere of the place epitomised the lives of these men, who spared themselves as little as the criminals it was their work to deal with.
Superintendent Branch seemed in no hurry to deal with the case. Perhaps his attitude was calculated. He continued his reading, while McFardell regarded him with anxiously speculative eyes.
At last the man behind the desk spoke, without looking up. He was a clean-cut, clean-shaven creature, with fair hair and pale blue eyes. He was possibly forty. He was tall, slight, and his whole appearance suggested energy and capacity.