“I thought that was the work of a woman, Sergeant,” he said, contemplating the paper. “Looks like she’s a friend of Constable Sinclair.”
“Likely one of them, sir?”
“One of his women friends?”
The sergeant-major shifted uneasily. He felt it was time to make himself heard.
“Aren’t you moving a bit fast, Sergeant Fyles?” he asked brusquely. “Sinclair was a sound enough officer. He’s pulled some good work since he was transferred here.”
A half smile flashed into the keen eyes of Stanley Fyles. He understood. Sturt was responsible for his men. Croisette watched the two men with quiet amusement.
“I haven’t a word against Sinclair for his work,” Fyles said seriously. “There was no better man I’d be glad to have on a job with me. You’re quite right. He’s pulled some good work. But there are men splendid under personal orders who aren’t worth salt on their own. I reckon Sinclair was one of them.”
“What was the trouble, Sergeant?” Croisette asked quietly.
“How do you come to know that—without passing word to me?”
The sergeant-major’s notions of duty and discipline were outraged.