“You won't have any bother about the pardon,” he said. “I was dining to-night with old man Bartholomew and he will fix that up in the morning.”
“There will be no necessity to detain Lexman in custody?” asked T. X.
“By the way, did Bartholomew mention Belinda Mary!”
The white-haired chief looked round in astonishment.
“And who the devil is Belinda Mary?” he asked.
“Belinda Mary,” he said a little quickly, “is Bartholomew's daughter.”
“By Jove,” said the Commissioner, “now you mention it, he did--she is still in France.”
“Oh, is she?” said T. X. innocently, and in his heart of hearts he wished most fervently that she was. They came to the room which Mansus occupied and found that admirable man waiting.
Wherever policemen meet, their conversation naturally drifts to “shop” and in two minutes the three were discussing with some animation and much difference of opinion, as far as T. X. was concerned, a series of frauds which had been perpetrated in the Midlands, and which have nothing to do with this story.
“Your friend is late,” said the Chief Commissioner.
“There he is,” cried T. X., springing up. He heard a familiar footstep on the flagged corridor, and sprung out of the room to meet the newcomer.
For a moment he stood wringing the hand of this grave man, his heart too full for words.
“My dear chap!” he said at last, “you don't know how glad I am to see you.”
“I am sorry to bring you into this business, T. X.,” he said quietly.
“Nonsense,” said the other, “come in and see the Chief.”
He took John by the arm and led him into the Superintendent's room.
There was a change in John Lexman. A subtle shifting of balance which was not readily discoverable. His face was older, the mobile mouth a little more grimly set, the eyes more deeply lined. He was in evening dress and looked, as T. X. thought, a typical, clean, English gentleman, such an one as any self-respecting valet would be proud to say he had “turned out.”
T. X. looking at him carefully could see no great change, save that down one side of his smooth shaven cheek ran the scar of an old wound; which could not have been much more than superficial.
“I must apologize for this kit,” said John, taking off his overcoat and laying it across the back of a chair, “but the fact is I was so bored this evening that I had to do something to pass the time away, so I dressed and went to the theatre--and was more bored than ever.”