As soon as he learned from his evening newspaper that Scotland Yard is to be brightened up—what with chromium-plated electric clocks, nice shiny panelling, and roses behind the ears of junior officers—my old Chief of the Secret Service decided that something should be done about his own department, "It looks so dull, my dear feller," he said to e, says Showman in the "Daily Herald."—Doesn't come up to a visitor's expectations. No thrills. Might be a post-office.
"So we're going to have all the passages and waiting rooms done with black hangings and that spooky blue lighting. And there'll be lady messengers—saucy little pieces with masks—who'll beckon you along, and wink.
"Then there'll be concealed loud-speakers, so that, anywhere in the building, you'll be liable io hear bits like this—gramophone records, of course—Hands up, von Krasch! A pity your wig fell off! Well, that's the last infernal machine you'll leave in my wastepaper basket!' Pretty good scheme, eh?"
"Fine, sir," I said. "Whose idea it?"
"Why, dam mit," tersed the Chief, "it's mine?"
I smiled as I passed along the corridor. His idea, yes?
Then why was that faint, intoxicating perfume on the air, and that powder on his coat?
Naughty little' Blinka!
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.