To few other men than Moreland would Labar have confided his troubles. He passed swiftly out of the little back door from the C.I.D. headquarters, dodging the Assistant Commissioner with some skill, for he felt that that official might be no less emphatic, if more urbane, than the Chief Constable on the state of crime in the West End.

His mind was focused upon Larry Hughes. Larry was a gentleman who had never been in a criminal court in his life⁠—a sleek, cultivated man about town, with a taste in literature and art, and enough money to run his own steam yacht and a racing stud. His life was apparently open to the world, his character to all seeming flawless, impeccable. Any headstrong police officer who had ventured to put a public slur on Larry’s character, by hauling him to a dungeon cell, would have very promptly found himself with a suit for heavy damages on his hands.