VIITHE USURER Across the city in St. Petersgate Square it had been one of the most alarming interrogations of Sergeant Picot’s experience, but by eleven o’clock that evening he was prepared to admit that the Chief had known what he was doing when he let “the old parson” have his head. He sat silent in the leather chair in the corner of the study in the rectory, his notebook decorously hidden in the folds of his raincoat, and reflected that if only the police were permitted the licence calmly assumed by the public life would be infinitely more simple.
Canon Avril had either never heard of the Judges’ Rules, or considered that in his own family they did not count. Impractical he might be, but as an extractor of the truth he was, as Picot was forced to admit, remarkably efficient.
They were
