It was an instruction to him from the chief of his division to render all assistance to Detective Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte, who was reopening the investigation into the death of one George Kendall.

Still stiffly erect, the sergeant returned the instruction to its envelope and the envelope to a tunic pocket. Hiseyes were no longer small, nor was his face brick-red-it had become distinctly purple. Redman had told him one evening in the office something about this Napoleon Bonaparte and had said he was the best detective Queensland, or any other state, had ever produced. And he, Richard Marshall, first class sergeant, and the senior officer of Merino Police District, had locked him up, because… He fought for composure.

“I regret having charged you, sir. I didn’t know,” he said.

“Of course you didn’t know me, Sergeant,” Bony agreed soothingly. “Sit down here beside me and let us talk of cabbages and murders and things.”

“But… but… oh, my aunt!”

“What is the matter with your aunt?” mildly inquired Bony, and then smiled.

“Bit of a shock, sir, finding that I’ve locked up aD. I. Took you for an ordinary half… ordinary station hand. Saw you were a stranger in my district, and we want the station compound fence painted and the cells whitewashed.”

“Labour scarce?”

“No, but money is.”

“And so you arrest a stranger in this town, get him seven or fourteen days’ detention from a tame justice, and then provide him with apaintpot and brush, three meals and a bed, and two bob a day to take over to the hotel half an hour before closing time. I know. Good idea. The swagman gets a nice rest and the taxpayer has a drop of his money saved out of the ocean he provides. But you want always to be sure not to lock up police inspectors or union bosses. Supposing I had been a boss of the painters’ union?”