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 officer to