His chief greeted him with a short nod that bespoke a mood no better than his own.
“Better sit down, Sergeant-major,” he said, as Sturt halted before his desk and saluted. “There’s a tough proposition to be settled before Orderly Room. We’ve got an hour.”
He went on working while the other remained standing. Sturt’s jaws had become suddenly motionless.
“You got the news, too, sir,” he asked, making a shrewd guess.
“I think so.” Croisette did not look up.
“About Constable Sinclair?”
“Yes.”
The superintendent raised his searching eyes, and the sergeant-major sat down with a movement very like a jolt.
Croisette reached across his big desk. He picked up a single sheet of somewhat soiled paper. He held it out to his subordinate, who took it.
“You’d best read what it says. It’s from a mossback of sorts, I take it, who has forgotten to sign it.”