A heavy hand fell with mathematical accuracy between his shoulder blades, and he flung round with a delicate shudder.

“One of these days, Moreland, someone’s going to slap you hard on the wrist, slog you on the jaw, and kick you where it hurts most. You’re too boisterous for the society of gentlemen.”

Moreland, of the Flying Squad, grinned cheerfully. “Behold the infant phenomenon of Grape Street, as the apostle of gloom,” he said, walking round Labar with mock awe. “Behold his shiny boots and well-creased trousers, and mark his creased forehead and frowning countenance. No, don’t speak. Let me apply my well-known powers of deduction.” He put his hand to his brow. “He has⁠—yes he has been on the carpet.”

A slow rueful smile broke on Labar’s face. “You guessed it,” he said. “If you want promotion there’s the job of divisional inspector at Grape Street liable to be vacant some time. Better write out your application.”