“Consent to take up!”

“Precisely. Consent is the word. The number of sackings I have received no longer interest me. I have always been reinstated. Now don’t you worry over me. My Chief knows my methods, my dear Watson. I have your co-operation?”

Pavier unknotted his eyebrows and slicked back his over-long white hair from the high and narrow forehead. The window light glistened in his dark eyes. They only indicated mood.

“Had I been unaware of your reputation, Bonaparte, I might have been angered by your-er-independence.”

The smile on Bony’s face evinced neither conceit nor arrogance, but assurance based on knowledge which is power.

“I am naturally impatient of red tape and regulations which are apt to bring on gastric trouble,” he said. “So let us devote our attention to these cyanide cases which Stillman, as the living worshipper of the Civil Machine, so signally failed to finalise. I have never failed, due, I believe, to an iron determination not to be sidetracked by the whims of a superior, and to an inherent gift of perseverance. I am not a Stillman who can ignore defeat. I dare not fail, for failure would mean the murder of the one thing which keeps me from the camps of the aborigines. To explain further would occupy too much time. I hope to finalise these poisonings within the fortnight. If not, then, with or without official sanction, I shall continue my investigation until I do discover the poisoner.”

“But you must obey orders,” expostulated Pavier, whose whole career had been governed by obedience to orders and the issuing of orders. “One cannot be a useful member of any organisation and not obey the orders of the organisation.”

“I obey an order when it suits me,” Bony said, and Pavier marvelled that he could feel no ire.