I shall never forget the face of the latter as he surveyed the scene before him.

“Gawd bless us!” he exclaimed.  “What’s up now, sir?  Murder?”

“Not exactly, Sergeant,” replied Latimer soothingly.  “I shot this man in self-defence.  The other two I give into your charge.  There is a warrant out for all three of them.”

It appeared that the sergeant knew who Latimer was, for he treated him with marked deference.

“Very well, sir,” he said.  “If ’e’s dead, ’e’s dead; anyhow, I’ve orders to take my instructions entirely from you.”  Then, dragging a note-book out of his pocket, he added with some excitement:  “There’s another thing, sir, a matter that the Tilbury station have just telephoned through about.  It seems”—­he consulted his references—­“it seems that when they were in that launch of theirs they run down a party o’ coast-guards, who’d got hold of Lyndon, the missing convict.  Off Tilbury it was.  D’you happen to know anything about this, sir?”

Latimer nodded his head.  “A certain amount, Sergeant,” he said.  “You will find the launch in the creek at the bottom of the cliff.”  He paused.  “This is Mr. Neil Lyndon,” he added; “I will be responsible for his safe keeping.”

I don’t know what sort of experiences the Isle of Sheppey usually provides for its police staff, but it was obvious that, professionally speaking, the sergeant was having the day of his life.  He stared at me for a moment with the utmost interest, and then, recollecting himself, turned and saluted Latimer.

“Very good, sir,” he said; “and what do you want me to do?”

“I want you to stay here for the present with one of my men, while we go to the station.  I shall send the car back, and then you will take the two prisoners into Queenborough.  My man will remain in charge of the bungalow.”

The sergeant saluted again, and Latimer turned to me.

“You and Morrison must come straight to town,” he said.  “We shall just have time to catch the twelve-three.”

It was at this point that Savaroff, who had been regarding us with the half-stupid stare of a man who has newly recovered consciousness, staggered up unsteadily from his chair.  His half-numbed brain seemed suddenly to have grasped what was happening.

“Verfluchter Schweinhund!” he shouted, turning on me.  “So it was you, then—­”

He got no further.  However embarrassed the sergeant might be by exceptional events, he was evidently thoroughly at home in his own department.

“’Ere!” he said, stepping forward briskly, “stow that, me man!” And with a sudden energetic thrust in the chest, he sent Savaroff sprawling backwards on the couch almost on top of von Bruenig.

“Don’t you use none of that language ’ere,” he added, standing over them, “or as like as not you’ll be sorry for it.”

There was a brief pause.  “I see, Sergeant,” said Latimer gravely, “that I am leaving the case in excellent hands.”