Yorke gave vent to a good-natured oath.  “Hodson? . . . you do me proud, my buck! . . .  Well now!—­this ‘three men in a boat’ business! . . .  I’ll admit I ‘rocked’ it with Crampton.  I virtually abolished him because—­oh!  I couldn’t stick the beggar at all.  I simply couldn’t make a pal of him.  He was fairly good at police work, but a proper cad, in my opinion.  Always swanking about the palatial residence he’d left behind in the Old Country.  He called it ’’is ‘ome’ at that.  Typical specimen of the middle-class snob.  Followed Taylor.  Thick-headed, serious-minded sort of fool.  Had great veneration for ‘his juty.’  No real knowledge of the Criminal Code, and minus common sense, yet begad! the silly beggar tried to be more regimental that the blooming Force is itself.  I systematically put the wind up to him ’till he got cold feet and quit.”

Redmond recalled the fact that Taylor had been his predecessor.  “Followed!” he echoed mockingly, looking up at his handiwork.

Yorke, with a twisted smile glanced down at the bruised, but debonair young face.  Benevolently he punched its owner in the back.  “Followed . . . a certain young fellow, yclept ’Nemesis’,” he said, “I sized you up for one of these smart Alecks—­first crack out of the box, and egad!  I think I’m about right.”

Said Redmond, “How about our respected sergeant? we seem to have forgotten him.”

“Slavin?” ejaculated the senior constable; and was silent awhile.  There was no levity in him now.  Slowly he resumed, “I guess as much as it’s humanly possible for two men to know each other—­down to the bedrock, it’s surely Burke Slavin and I. Should too, the years we’ve been together.  The good old beggar! . . .  We slang each other, and all that . . . but there’s too much between us ever to resent anything for long.”

“I know,” said Redmond simply, “he told me himself—­last night.”

“Eh?” queried Yorke sharply.  “My God! . . .  Tchkk!” he clucked, and burying his hands in his face he gave vent to a fretful oath.  “My God!” he repeated miserably, “I’d forgotten—­last night! . . .  I sure must have been ‘lit’ . . . to come that over old Burke. . . .”

“You sure were!” remarked Redmond brutally.

“Keats’ ‘St. Agnes’ Eve’! . . .  Oh, Lord!” . . .  He drew in his breath with a sibilant hiss, “There seems something—­something devilish about—­”

“I know!  I know!” breathed Yorke tensely, “what . . . you mean.”  His haggard eyes implored Redmond’s.  “No! no! never again . . .  I swear it. . . .”

There came a long, painful silence.  “See here; look!” began Yorke suddenly.  He stopped and surveyed George, a trifle anxiously.  “Mind! . . .  I’m not trying to justify myself but—­get me right about this now.  Don’t you ever start in making a mistake about Slavin—­blarney and all.  No, Sir!  I tell you when old Burke runs amok in those tantrums he’s a holy fright.  He’d kill a man.  Might as well run up against a gorilla.”