After all, what was the use of arguing? Divisional Detective Inspector Labar was under no illusions about himself. He _was_ lazy. All Scotland Yard knew it. Particularly did Winter, Chief Constable of the Criminal Investigation Department know it, for in some sort Labar was a _protégé_ of his. Yet that shrewd old veteran reckoned that even the quality of indolence had its uses. It could make a brilliant man concentrate fiercely on his work, in order to save time for his own purposes. The amount of time taken by a detective on an individual job is largely a matter on which his superiors must accept his word. Some men slog laboriously, while others get their results quickly. In minor positions there is always someone around to see that the work is done. All this, however, does not apply in the same degree to a detective inspector. Such a one gives, more often than he receives, orders. As an executive Labar felt himself a failure. Well, well, a man must have a little time for golf. A heavy hand fell with mathematical accuracy between his shoulder blades, and he flung round with a delicate shudder. "One of these days, Moreland, someone's going to slap you hard on the wrist, slog you on the jaw, and kick you where it hurts most. You're too boisterous for the society of gentlemen." Moreland, of the Flying Squad, grinned cheerfully. "Behold the infant phenomenon of Grape Street, as the apostle of gloom," he said, walking round Labar with mock awe. "Behold his shiny boots and well-creased trousers, and mark his creased forehead and frowning countenance. No, don't speak. Let me apply my well-known powers of deduction." He put his hand to his brow. "He has--yes he has been on the carpet." A slow rueful smile broke on Labar's face. "You guessed it," he said. "If you want promotion there's the job of divisional inspector at Grape Street liable to be vacant some time. Better write out your application." Moreland's levity vanished. "The old man's bitten you as bad as that? Cheer up, and pull yourself together. Come and tell papa all about it." He pulled Labar into an adjoining room, adjusted himself on a tall stool and lit a pipe. "Shoot," he ordered. Harry Labar shrugged his shoulders. "There's nothing to it," he declared. "Winter says things are too loose in the division. I've got to tighten them up, or----" "The shelf, eh?" Moreland eyed his friend whimsically. "That'll be a new record for you. The youngest man to be promoted divisional inspector, and the youngest divisional inspector to retire. Well, why don't you tighten them up?"