March 8th.
　　Superintendent¹ Battle was sitting at the breakfast table. His jaw² was set in a truculent³ fashion and he was reading, slowly and carefully, a letter that his wife had just tearfully handed to him. There was no expression visible on his face, for his face never did register any expression. It had the aspect of a face carved out of wood. It was solid and durable⁴ and, in some way, impressive. Superintendent Battle had never suggested brilliance⁵; he was, definitely, not a brilliant man, but he had some other quality, difficult to define, that was nevertheless forceful.
　　"I can't believe it," said Mrs. Battle, sobbing⁶. "Sylvia!"Sylvia was the youngest of Superintendent and Mrs. Battle's five children. She was sixteen and at school near Maidstone.
　　The letter was from Miss Amphrey, headmistress of the school in question. It was a clear, kindly⁷ and extremely tactful letter. It set out, in black and white, that various small thefts had been puzzling the school authorities for some time, that the matter had been at last cleared up, that Sylvia Battle had confessed, and that Miss Amphrey would like to see Mr. and Mrs. Battle at the earliest possible opportunity "to discuss the position."Superintendent Battle folded up the letter, put it in his pocket, and said: "You leave this to me, Mary."He got up, walked round the table, patted her on the cheek and said, "Don't worry, dear, it will be all right."He went from the room, leaving comfort and reassurance⁸ behind him.
　　That afternoon, in Miss Amphrey's modern and individualistic drawing-room, Superintendent Battle sat very squarely on his chair, his large wooden hands on his knees, confronting Miss Amphrey, and managing to look, far more than usual, every inch a policeman.
　　Miss Amphrey was a very successful headmistress. She had personality - a great deal of personality, she was enlightened and up to date, and she combined discipline with modern ideas of self-determination.

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