He continued to the end of his beat and met his impatient superior. "Everything's all right, sergeant," he reported; "only old Minute's lights are blazing away and his windows are open." "Better go and warn him," said the sergeant, pulling his bicycle into position for mounting. He had his foot on the treadle, but hesitated. "I'd warn him myself, but I don't think he'd be glad to see me." He grinned to himself, then remarked: "Something queer about Minute--eh?" "There is, indeed," agreed Constable Wiseman heartily. His beat was a lonely one, and he was a very bored man. If by agreement with his officer he could induce that loquacious gentleman to talk for a quarter of an hour, so much dull time might be passed. The fact that Sergeant Smith was loquacious indicated, too, that he had been drinking and was ready to quarrel with anybody. "Come under the shelter of that wall," said the sergeant, and pushed his machine to the protection afforded by the side wall of a house. It is possible that the sergeant was anxious to impress upon his subordinate's mind a point of view which might be useful to himself one day. "Minute is a dangerous old man," he said. "Don't I know it?" said Constable Wiseman, with the recollection of sundry "reportings" and inquiries. "You've got to remember that, Wiseman," the sergeant went on; "and by 'dangerous' I mean that he's the sort of old fellow that would ask a constable to come in to have a drink and then report him." "Good Lord!" said the shocked Mr. Wiseman at this revelation of the blackest treachery. Sergeant Smith nodded. "That's the sort of man he is," he said. "I knew him years ago--at least, I've seen him. I was in Matabeleland with him, and I tell you there's nothing too mean for 'Ready-Money Minute'--curse him!" "I'll bet you have had a terrible life, sergeant," encouraged Constable Wiseman. The other laughed bitterly. "I have," he said. Sergeant Smith's acquaintance with Eastbourne was a short one. He had only been four years in the town, and had, so rumor ran, owed his promotion to influence. What that influence was none could say. It had been suggested that John Minute himself had secured him his sergeant's stripes, but that was a theory which was pooh-poohed by people who knew that the sergeant had little that was good to say of his supposed patron. Constable Wiseman, a profound thinker and a secret reader of sensational detective stories, had at one time made a report against John Minute for some technical offense, and had made it in fear and trembling, expecting his sergeant promptly to squash this attempt to persecute his patron; but, to his surprise and delight, Sergeant Smith had furthered his efforts and had helped to secure the conviction which involved a fine. "You go on and finish your beat, Constable," said the sergeant suddenly, "and I'll ride up to the old devil's house and see what's doing."