“Lucky dog,” he said.  “When I was young I did the like.  I love food.  You need never fear any rough stuff in business as long as you can eat beef and drink beer.  But nowadays, I don’t go into the rough stuff—­too old and fat.”

“Of course not, sir.  You’ve done your bit.  Nobody on your side has been at closer quarters with the big crooks, or heard their guns oftener.”

“That’s true.”

Mr. Ganns held up his left hand, which was deformed and had lost the third and little finger.

“The last shot that Billy Benyon ever fired.  A great man—­Billy.  I’ll never see his like again.”

“The Boston murderer?  A genius!”

“He was.  A marvellous brain.  When I sent him to the chair it was like a Bushman killing an elephant.”

“You’re sorry for the under dog sometimes, I expect?”

“Not always; but now and again I like the bull to get the toreador, and the savage to eat the missionary.”

They entered the smoking-room presently and then Brendon, very much to his surprise, heard an astonishing lecture which left him under the emotions of a fourth-form schoolboy after an interview with his head master.

Mr. Ganns ordered coffee, took snuff, and bade Mark listen and not interrupt.

“We’re going into this thing together and I want you to get a clear hunch on it,” he began, “because at present you have not.  I don’t say we shall see it through; but if we do, the credit’s going to be yours, not mine.  We’ll come to the Redmayne business in a minute.  But first let us have a look at Mr. Mark Brendon, if it won’t bore you stiff.”

The other laughed.

“He’s not a very impressive object, so far as this case is concerned, Mr. Ganns.”

“He is not,” admitted Peter genially.  “Quite the reverse, in fact.  And his poor showing has puzzled Mr. Brendon a good bit, and some of his superior officers also.  So let us examine the situation from that angle before we get up against the problem itself.”

He stirred his coffee, poured a thimbleful of cognac into it, sipped it, and then slid into a comfortable position in his armchair, put his big hands into his trousers pockets, and regarded Mark with a steady and unblinking stare.  His eyes were pale blue, deeply set and small, but still of a keen brilliancy.

“You’re a detective inspector of Scotland Yard,” continued Ganns, “and Scotland Yard is still the high-water mark of police organization in the world.  The Central Bureau in New York is pretty close up, and I’ve nothing but admiration for the French and Italian Secret Services; but the fact remains:  The Yard is first; and you’ve won, and fairly won your place there.  That’s a big thing and you didn’t get it without some work and some luck, Brendon.  But now—­this Redmayne racket.  You were right on the spot, hit the trail before it was cold, had everything to help you that heart of man could wish for; yet a guy who had joined the force only a week before could have done no worse.  In a word, your conduct of the affair don’t square with your reputation.  Your dope never cut any ice from the start.  And why?  Because, without a doubt, you had a theory and got lost in it.”