bovine. You, also, I take it, are a confirmed smoker, so both of you
are at cross-purposes already."

Furneaux's voice was pitched in the curious piping note usually
associated with comic relief in a melodrama, but his wizened face was
solemn as a red Indian's. It was Theydon who smiled. His preconceived
ideas as to the appearance and demeanor of the London detective were
shattered. Really, there was no need to take these two seriously.

Winter, while lighting the cigar, grinned amiably at his colleague.
Furneaux passed a cigarette to and fro under his nostrils and sniffed.
Theydon reached for a pipe and tobacco jar and drew up a chair.

"Well," he said, "it is not my business to criticise your methods. I
have very little to tell you. I suppose Bates--"

"The really important thing is this car which followed you tonight,"
broke in Winter. "The details are fresh in your memory. What type of
car was it? Did you see the driver and occupants? What's its number?"

Theydon had not expected these questions. He looked his astonishment.

"Ha!" cackled Furneaux. "What did I tell you?"

"O, shut up!" growled Winter. "I am asking just what you yourself are
itching to know."

"May I take it that the car has not been dogging me by your
instructions?" said Theydon. He was inclined to be skeptical, yet the
Chief Inspector seemed to have spoken quite candidly.