“That’s it,” he announced to the half-dozen men assembled within Number 4 Bow Street, all of whom had spent the last half-hour watching the clock with various degrees of imperfectly concealed impatience. “Mr. Dixon?” A grizzled man only a few years younger than the magistrate stepped up to the bench in answer to the summons. “A happy Christmas to you, Dixon,” Mr. Colquhoun said, shaking him warmly by the hand. “Thank you, sir, and the same to you,” replied the most senior Runner on the Bow Street force, looking down at the palm of his hand with every appearance of pleasure. “Mr. Marshall? Mr. Griffin?” One by one, each man received holiday greetings from the magistrate before taking himself off for home. Soon only two men remained. “Mr. Foote?” Mr. Colquhoun shook hands with Mr. Foote, a man in his mid-thirties with straw-coloured hair, cold blue eyes, and a perpetual sneer. “This probably seems a bit paltry to one who just pocketed a tidy thirty pounds for recovering the Blakely jewels, but I daresay you won’t despise it.”
