"How does it seem, my arch-criminal, to be still breathing God's
fresh air?" Francis retorted in the same vein. "Make the most of
it. It may not last for ever."
Sir Timothy smiled. He was looking exceedingly well that
morning, the very prototype of a man contented with life and his
part in it. He was wearing a morning coat and silk hat, his
patent boots were faultlessly polished, his trousers pressed to
perfection, his grey silk tie neat and fashionable.
Notwithstanding his waxenlike pallor, his slim figure and lithe,
athletic walk seemed to speak of good health.
"You may catch the minnow," he murmured. "The big fish swim on.
By-the-bye," he added, "I do not notice that your sledge-hammer
blows at crime are having much effect. Two undetected murders
last week, and one the week before. What are you about, my
astute friend?"
"Those are matters for Scotland Yard," Francis replied, with an
indifferent little wave of the hand which held his cigarette.
"Details are for the professional. I seek that corner in Hell
where the thunders are welded and the poison gases mixed. In
other words, I seek for the brains of crime."
"Believe me, we do not see enough of one another, my young
friend," Sir Timothy said earnestly. "You interest me more and
more every time we meet.
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