“Hark to the chief constable!” Wendover complained. “Of course, his mind dotes on the legal aspect of things, and he's used to keeping all sorts of rules and regulations in his head. His knowledge of the laws of golf is worth a couple of strokes on his handicap on any average round.” Cressida glanced at Sir Clinton. “Are you really a chief constable?” she asked. “Somehow you aren't like the idea I had of chief constables.” “I'm on holiday at present,” Sir Clinton answered lightly; “perhaps that makes a difference. But I'm sorry to fall below your ideal—especially in my own district. If you could tell me what you miss, perhaps I could get it. What's wanted? Constabulary boots, or beetle-brows, or a note-book ready to hand, or a magnifying glass, or anything of that sort?” “Not quite. But I thought you'd look more like an official somehow.” “Well, in a way that's a compliment. I've spent a fair part of my existence trying hard _not_ to look like an official. I wasn't born a chief constable, you know. I was once a mere detective sort of person at the other end of the world.” “Were you really? But, then, you don't look like my idea of a detective, either!” Sir Clinton laughed. “I'm afraid you're hard to please, Mrs. Fleetwood. Mr. Wendover's just as bad. He's a faithful reader of the classics, and he simply can't imagine anyone going in for detective work without a steely eye and a magnifying glass. It jars on his finer feelings merely to think of a detective without either of them. The only thing that saves me is that I'm not a detective nowadays; and he salves his conscience by refusing to believe that I ever was one.” Wendover took up the challenge. “I've only seen you at work once in the detective line,” he confessed, “and I must admit I thought your methods were simply deplorable, Clinton.” “Quite right,” Sir Clinton admitted: “I disappointed you badly in that Maze affair, I know. Even the success in the end hardly justified the means employed in reaching it. Let's draw a veil, eh?” They had reached the door of the hotel, and, after a few words, Cressida and her husband went into the building. “Nice pair they make,” Wendover remarked, glancing after them as they went. “I like to see youngsters of that type. They somehow make you feel that the younger generation isn't any worse than its parents; and that it has a good deal less fuss about it, too. Reinstates one's belief in humanity, and all that sort of thing.” “Yes,” Sir Clinton concurred, with a faint twinkle in his eye. “Some people one takes to instinctively. It's the manner that does it. I remember a man I once ran across—splendid fellow, charm, magnetic personality, and so on.” His voice died away, as though he had lost interest in the matter. “Yes?” Wendover inquired, evidently feeling that the story had stopped too soon. “He was the worst poker-sharp on the liner,” Sir Clinton added gently, “Charm of manner was one of his assets, you know.”