He stared without winking in a perfect immobility of his round eyes, as he was used to stare at the various members of the criminal class when, after being duly cautioned, they made their statements in the tones of injured innocence, or false simplicity, or sullen resignation.

But behind that professional and stony fixity there was some surprise too, for in such a tone, combining nicely the note of contempt and impatience, Chief Inspector Heat, the right-hand man of the department, was not used to be addressed.

He began in a procrastinating manner, like a man taken unawares by a new and unexpected experience.
"What I've got against that man Michaelis you mean, sir ?" The Assistant Commissioner watched the bullet head; the points of that Norse rover's moustache, falling below the line of the heavy jaw; the whole full and pale physiognomy, whose determined character was marred by too much flesh; at the cunning wrinkles radiating from the outer corners of the eyes--and in that purposeful contemplation of the valuable and trusted officer he drew a conviction so sudden that it moved him like an inspiration.
"I have reason to think that when you came into this room," he said in measured tones, "it was not Michaelis who was in your mind; not principally--perhaps not at all." "You have reason to think, sir ?" muttered Chief Inspector Heat, with every appearance of astonishment, which up to a certain point was genuine enough.

He had discovered in this affair a delicate and perplexing side, forcing upon the discoverer a certain amount of insincerity--that sort of insincerity which, under the names of skill, prudence, discretion, turns up at one point or another in most human affairs.

He felt at the moment like a tight-rope artist might feel if suddenly, in the middle of the performance, the manager of the Music Hall were to rush out of the proper managerial seclusion and begin to shake the rope.