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　　That T. X. had a more legitimate occupation we know, for it wasthat flippant man whose outrageous comment on the Home OfficeAdministration is popularly supposed to have sent one HomeSecretary to his grave, who traced the Deptford murderers througha labyrinth of perjury and who brought to book Sir Julius Waglitethough he had covered his trail of defalcation through the balancesheets of thirty-four companies.
　　On the night of March 3rd, T. X. sat in his inner officeinterviewing a disconsolate inspector of metropolitan police,named Mansus.
　　In appearance T. X. conveyed the impression of extreme youth, forhis face was almost boyish and it was only when you looked at himclosely and saw the little creases about his eyes, the setting ofhis straight mouth, that you guessed he was on the way to forty.
　　In his early days he had been something of a poet, and had writtena slight volume of "Woodland Lyrics," the mention of which at thislater stage was sufficient to make him feel violently unhappy.
　　In manner he was tactful but persistent, his language was at timesmarked by a violent extravagance and he had had the distinction ofhaving provoked, by certain correspondence which had seen thelight, the comment of a former Home Secretary that "it wasunfortunate that Mr. Meredith did not take his position with theseriousness which was expected from a public official."His language was, as I say, under great provocation, violent andunusual. He had a trick of using words which never were on landor sea, and illustrating his instruction or his admonition withthe quaintest phraseology.
　　Now he was tilted back in his office chair at an alarming angle,scowling at his distressed subordinate who sat on the edge of achair at the other side of his desk.
　　"But,cheap moncler jackets, T. X.," protested the Inspector, "there was nothing to befound."It was the outrageous practice of Mr. Meredith to insist upon hisassociates calling him by his initials, a practice which had earntdisapproval in the highest quarters.
　　"Nothing is to be found!" he repeated wrathfully. "Curious Mike!"He sat up with a suddenness which caused the police officer tostart back in alarm.
　　"Listen," said T. X., grasping an ivory paperknife savagely in hishand and tapping his blotting-pad to emphasize his words, "you'rea pie!""I'm a policeman," said the other patiently.
　　"A policeman!" exclaimed the exasperated T,moncler clerance. X. "You're worse thana pie, you're a slud,jordan 11! I'm afraid I shall never make a detectiveof you," he shook his head sorrowfully at the smiling Mansus whohad been in the police force when T. X. was a small boy at school,"you are neither Wise nor Wily; you combine the innocence of aBaby with the grubbiness of a County Parson - you ought to be inthe choir."At this outrageous insult Mr. Mansus was silent; what he mighthave said, or what further provocation he might have received maybe never known, for at that moment, the Chief himself walked in.
　　The Chief of the Police in these days was a grey man, rathertired,moncler mens jackets, with a hawk nose and deep eyes that glared under shaggyeyebrows and he was a terror to all men of his department save toT. X. who respected nothing on earth and very little elsewhere.