He set out on his long tramp to the nearest town.
Chapter XIV.
Back in London
Boyce was smoking an excellent cigar, and was generally pleased with himself. He had just received a short note from the Prime Minister, thanking him for his good work in running the murderer of the Home Secretary to earth, and hinting that when the time came for the retirement of that fine old soldier, Sir Thomas Hawley, as Chief Commissioner for London, the new Home Secretary could not do better than appoint so efficient an officer as he had proved himself to be.
This was good reading. He had feared some strong words about his allowing lunatics to be at large, but the truth was that Sir James had never been popular with his colleagues, as he was considered reserved, and had not lent himself to giving soft berths to the nephews and friends of his fellow Cabinet Ministers.
His death had enabled the Premier to reshuffle the Ministry, and bring in an impecunious nephew of his own to a minor post.
So everyone was happy.
Boyce rang the bell and sent for Sinclair.
The latter was not in the same genial mood. None of the reflected glory of Boyce’s triumph had come his way, and he was perfectly convinced that whoever was guilty of the murder, Jackson was not.
“Take a seat, Sinclair,” said Boyce. “You might care to see this letter from the Premier,” and he handed it over with an air of indifference which did not deceive the other.
“Very good, sir, I congratulate you,” he said, simply.