into a hooligan, or asmart R.A.F. officer, complete with a toothbrush moustache and"swish."
In his own mind he was convinced that, given the opportunity, hecould achieve greatness as a master of disguise, rivalling thehighly-coloured stories of Charles Peace. He had even put histheories to the test.
One evening as Miss Norman, who had been working late, was on herway to Charing Cross Underground Station, she was accosted by ayouth with upturned collar, wearing a shabby cap and a queer CharlieChaplain moustache that was not on straight. In a husky voice heenquired his way to the Strand.
"Good gracious, Johnnie!" she cried involuntarily. "What on earth'sthe matter?"
A moment later, as she regarded the vanishing form of William
Johnson, she wanted to kill herself for her lack of tact.
"Poor little Innocent!" she had murmured as she continued downVilliers Street, and there was in her eyes a reflection of the tearsshe had seen spring to those of William Johnson, whose first attemptat disguise had proved so tragic a failure.
Neither ever referred to the incident subsequently – although fordays William Johnson experienced all the unenviable sensations ofDamocles.
From that moment his devotion to Gladys Norman had become almostworship.
But William Johnson was not deterred, either by his own initialfailure or his chief's opinion. He resolutely stuck to his ownideas, and continued to expend his pocket-money upon tinted glasses, false-moustaches and grease paint; for hidden away in the innerrecesses of his mind was the conviction that it was not quiteplaying the game, as the game should be played, to solve a mysteryor bring a criminal to justice without having recourse to disguise.
It was to him as if Nelson had won the Battle of Trafalgar in a softhat and a burberry, or Wellington had met Blücher in flannels andsilk socks.
Somewhere in the future he saw himself the head of a "William
Johnson Bureau," and in the illustrated papers a portrait of "Mr.
William Johnson as he is," and beneath it a series of characters that would rival a Dickens novel, with another legend reading, "Mr.
William Johnson as he appears."
With these day-dreams, the junior at the Malcolm Sage Bureau wouldoccupy the time when not actually engaged either in the performanceof his by no means arduous duties, or in reading the highly-coloureddetective stories from which he drew his inspiration.
From behind the glass-panelled door would come the tick-tack of Miss
Norman's typewriter, whilst outside droned the great symphony of
London, growing into a crescendo as the door was opened, dying away again as it fell to once more, guided by an automatic self-closer.
From these reveries William Johnson would be aroused either byperemptory blasts upon the buzzer of the private-telephone, or bythe entry of a client.
One morning, as he was hesitating between assuming the disguise of anaval commander and a street-hawker, a florid little man with purplejowl and a white, bristling moustache hurtled through the swing-door, followed by a tall, spare man, whose clothing indicated his clericalcalling.
"Mr. Sage in?" demanded the little man fiercely.
"Mr. Sage is engaged, sir," said the junior, his eyes upon theclergyman, in whose appearance there was something that causedWilliam Johnson to like him on the spot.
"Take my card in to him," said the little, bristly man. "Tell himthat General Sir John Hackblock wishes to see him immediately." Thetone was suggestive of the parade-ground rather than a London office.
At that moment Gladys Norman appeared through the glass-panelleddoor. The clergyman immediately removed his hat, the general merelyturned as if changing front to receive a new foe.
"Mr. Sage will be engaged for about a quarter of an hour. I am hissecretary," she explained. She, also, looked at the general'scompanion, wondering what sort of teeth were behind that gentle, yetfirm mouth. "Perhaps you will take a seat," she added.
This time the clergyman smiled, and Gladys Norman knew that she tooliked him. Sir John looked about him aggressively, blew out hischeeks several times, then flopped into a chair. His companion alsoseated himself, and appeared to become lost in a fit of abstraction.
William Johnson returned to his table and became engrossed, ostensibly in the exploits of an indestructible trailer of men; butreally in a surreptitious examination of the two callers.
He had just succeeded in deducing from their manner that theywere father and son, and from the boots of the younger that hewas low church and a bad walker, when two sharp blasts on thetelephone-buzzer brought him to his feet and half-way across theoffice in what was practically one movement. With Malcolm Sage therewere two things to be avoided, delay in answering a summons, andunnecessary words.
"This way, sir," he said, and led them through the glass-panelleddoor to Malcolm Sage's private room.
With a short, jerky movement of his head Malcolm Sage motioned hisvisitors to be seated. In that one movement his steel-coloured eyeshad registered a mental photograph of the two men. That glanceembraced all the details; the dark hair of the younger, greying atthe temples, the dreamy grey eyes, the gentle curves of a mouth thatwas, nevertheless, capable of great sternness, and the spare, almostlean frame; then the self-important, overbearing manner of the olderman. "High Anglican, ascetic, out-of-doors," was Malcolm Sage'smental classification of the one, thus unconsciously reversing theWilliam Johnson's verdict. The other he dismissed as a pompous ass.
"You Mr. Sage?" Sir John regarded the bald conical head andgold-rimmed spectacles as if they had been unpolished buttons onparade.
Malcolm Sage inclined his head slightly, and proceeded to gaze downat his fingers spread out on the table before him. After the firstappraising glance he rarely looked at a client.
"I am Sir John Hackblock; this is my friend, the Rev. Geoffrey
Callice."
Again a slight inclination of the head indicated that Malcolm Sagehad heard.
Mr. Llewellyn John would have recognised in Sir John Hackblock thelast man in the world who should have been brought into contact withMalcolm Sage. The Prime Minister's own policy had been to keepMalcolm Sage from contact with other Ministers, and thus reduce thenumber of his embarrassing resignations.
"I want to consult you about a most damnable outrage," exploded thegeneral. "It's inconceivable that in this – "
"Will you kindly be as brief as possible?" said Malcolm Sage, fondling the lobe of his left ear. "I can spare only a few minutes."
Sir John gasped, glared across at him angrily; then, seeming to takehimself in hand, continued:
"You've heard of the Surrey cattle-maiming outrages?" he enquired.
Malcolm Sage nodded.
"Well, this morning a brood-mare of mine was found hacked about inan unspeakable manner. Oh, the damn scoundrels!" he burst out as hejumped from his chair and began pacing up and down the room.
"I think it will be better if Mr. Callice tells me the details,"said Malcolm Sage, evenly. "You seem a little over-wrought."
"Over-wrought!" cried Sir John. "Over-wrought! Dammit, so would yoube if you had lost over a dozen beasts." In the army he was known as"Dammit Hackblock."
Mr. Callice looked across to the general, who, nodding acquiescence, proceeded to blow his nose violently, as if to bid Malcolm Sagedefiance.
"This morning a favourite mare belonging to Sir John was foundmutilated in a terrible manner – " Mr. Callice paused; there wassomething in his voice that caused Malcolm Sage to look up. Thegentle look had gone from his face, his eyes flashed, and his mouthwas set in a stern, severe line.
"Good preacher," Malcolm Sage decided as he dropped his eyes oncemore, and upon his blotting pad proceeded to develop the PonsAsinorum into a church.
In a voice that vibrated with feeling and suggested greatself-restraint, Mr. Callice proceeded to tell the