age and Onions," the feebleness of
the _jeu d'esprit_ being to some extent mitigated by the venom with
which it was uttered. Nothing short of the anti-criminal traditions of
the Yard had saved Malcolm Sage from assassination at the hands of its
outraged officials.

His indifference was to them far more galling than contempt. He seemed
sublimely unconscious of the fact that he was not popular with the
police officials, a circumstance that merely added to the dislike with
which he was regarded.

There was much to be said for Scotland Yard, which was called upon to
carry out instructions from "a pack of blinking amachoors," as one of
Sage's most pronounced antagonists had phrased it. Added to which was
the fact that they were dealing with a man who seemed entirely unable
to discriminate between courtesy and venomous hatred. Like the German
nation, the officials discovered that there was little virtue in a hymn
of hate that was not recognised as such.

"It's no good scrapping a man because he doesn't keep to your own
time-table," said Mr. Llewellyn John, mentally making a note of the
phrase for future use.

Sir Roger had remarked that the Prime Minister lay awake half the night
coining phrases which would not win the war.

"This John Dene has caused more trouble at the Home Office than all the
rest of the war put together." Sir Roger was obviously in a bad temper.

"We must learn to think Imperially, my dear Flynn."

The Home Secretary made a movement of impatience. "There'll be murder
at Scotland Yard one of these days," he announced. "That fellow Sage
goads the officials there to madness."

"And yet he's so popular with his own men," said Mr. Llewellyn John.
"At Department Z. they would do anything for him."

"Well, I wish they'd do it and keep him there."

Whilst Mr. Llewellyn John and Sir Roger Flynn were discussing
Department Z., Colonel Walton was seated at his table drawing diagrams
upon the blotting paper, and Malcolm Sage sat opposite, engaged in the
never-ending examination of his finger-nails.

"The Skipper's got the wind up, Sage," said Colonel Walton.

"I expected as much."

"I've got to go round there in a quarter of an hour. Sir Roger's
trying to force his hand."

"Let him," said Malcolm Sage.

Colonel Walton shook his head with a smile. "That's all very well,
Sage; but it isn't the language of diplomacy."

"Ours isn't the department of diplomacy, chief. Why not promise him
some