By a sudden jerk he detached it, and _only_ after stuffing it into his
pocket turned round to the room, and flung the velvet collar back on the
table--

"Cover up," he directed the attendants curtly, without another look, and,
saluted by the constable, carried off his spoil hastily.

A convenient train whirled him up to town, alone and pondering deeply, in
a third-class compartment. That singed piece of cloth was incredibly
valuable, and he could not defend himself from astonishment at the casual
manner it had come into his possession. It was as if Fate had thrust
that clue into his hands. And after the manner of the average man, whose
ambition is to command events, he began to mistrust such a gratuitous and
accidental success--just because it seemed forced upon him. The
practical value of success depends not a little on the way you look at
it. But Fate looks at nothing. It has no discretion. He no longer
considered it eminently desirable all round to establish publicly the
identity of the man who had blown himself up that morning with such
horrible completeness. But he was not certain of the view his department
would take. A department is to those it employs a complex personality
with ideas and even fads of its own. It depends on the loyal devotion of
its servants, and the devoted loyalty of trusted servants is associated
with a certain amount of affectionate contempt, which keeps it sweet, as
it were. By a benevolent provision of Nature no man is a hero to his
valet, or else the heroes would have to brush their own clothes. Likewise
no department appears perfectly wise to the intimacy of its workers. A
department does not know so much as some of its servants. Being a
dispassionate organism, it can never be perfectly informed. It would not
be good for its efficiency to know too much. Chief Inspector Heat got
out of the train in a state of thoughtfulness entirely untainted with