eads of public departments who speak
behind their hands, mysterious under-secretaries of state who discuss
things in whispers in the remote corners of their clubrooms and the more
frank views of American correspondents who had no hesitation in putting
those views into print for the benefit of their readers.

That T. X. had a more legitimate occupation we know, for it was that
flippant man whose outrageous comment on the Home Office Administration
is popularly supposed to have sent one Home Secretary to his grave, who
traced the Deptford murderers through a labyrinth of perjury and who
brought to book Sir Julius Waglite though he had covered his trail of
defalcation through the balance sheets of thirty-four companies.

On the night of March 3rd, T. X. sat in his inner office interviewing a
disconsolate inspector of metropolitan police, named Mansus.

In appearance T. X. conveyed the impression of extreme youth, for his
face was almost boyish and it was only when you looked at him closely
and saw the little creases about his eyes, the setting of his straight
mouth, that you guessed he was on the way to forty. In his early days
he had been something of a poet, and had written a slight volume
of "Woodland Lyrics," the mention of which at this later stage was
sufficient to make him feel violently unhappy.

In manner he was tactful but persistent, his language was at times
marked by a violent extravagance and he had had the distinction of
having provoked, by certain correspondence which had seen the light,
the comment of a former Home Secretary that "it was unfortunate that
Mr. Meredith did not take his position with the seriousness which was
expected from a public official."

His language was, as I say, under great provocation, violent and
unusual. He had a trick of using words which never were on land or sea,
and illustrating his instruction or his admonition with the quaintest
phraseology.

Now he was tilted back in his office chair at an alarming angle,
scowling at his distressed subordinate who sat on the edge of a chair at
the other side of his desk.

"But, T. X.," protested the Inspector, "there was nothing to be found."

It was the outrageous practice of Mr. Meredith to insist upon his
associates calling him by his initials, a practice which had earnt
disapproval in the highest quarters.

"Nothing is to be found!" he repeated wrathfully. "Curious Mike!"

He sat up with a suddenness which caused the police o