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He rested his elbow on the blotting pad, pressing tips of long, sensitive fingers together and exposing his angular wrists.

"I mind me of Port Said, where a wee job led me some whiles ago. A cleaner, quieter little bit of a town no man could wish to see. But my opposite number there took me underground. Weel, weel! The black-out has done just that to crime in London:—driven it underground."

"I'm glad the spy game isn't in my hands," remarked Sergeant Bluett. "Mr. Gaston Max is welcome to his job."

"Gaston Max is a most acceptable confrère. Owing to what he calls a wee misunderstanding wi' Vichy, he's now one o' us. He has a brilliant record wi' the Paris police, and in my opeenion is the best detective in Europe."

Sergeant Bluett withdrew the evening paper and rerolled it almost fiercely. "He gets far more rope from the Chief than we do. We have to stick to the book of the words; he sings his own sweet song."

"Such was the arrangement. And until he has proven himself, it isna' for us to creeticise a clever officer."