All that a veracious chronicler can accomplish is to set forth a plain tale of events in their proper sequence, and leave the ultimate verdict to individual judgment.
Winter was a hard-headed, broad-minded official, whose long and wide experience enabled him to estimate at their true value the far-reaching powers of the State as opposed to the machinations of a few determined outlaws.

On the other hand, the amazing facility with which Furneaux could enter into the twists and turns of the criminal mind entitles his matured views to much respect.
At any rate, this is what happened.
Winter was sitting in his office, smoking a fat cigar, and wading through reports brought in by subordinates concerning every opium den and Chinese boarding house in the East End, when Furneaux entered.
"Any luck ?" inquired the chief, laying aside one document which seemed to merit fuller inquiry; it described a club much frequented by Chinese residents in London, men of a higher class than the sailors and firemen brought to the port by ships trading with the Far East, and an outstanding feature of the Young Manchus' operations was the intelligent grasp of the ways and means of modern civilized life these filibusters exhibited.
"So-so," squeaked Furneaux.
He flung himself into a big armchair, curled up in it like an animated Buddha, and extracted one of the three ivory skulls from a waistcoat pocket.
"If you could only speak, you image of evil!" he muttered.

"You're not so dead that you cannot work mischief.

Why the deuce, then, can't you mouth your incantations?
Then we would listen and learn." Winter, still sorting his papers, cocked the cigar inquisitively on one side of his mouth.
"Oh, I have ascertained a lot about the inner politics of China," mumbled Furneaux, irritably, gazing fixedly at the skull after one quick glance of his colleague.

"Every little helps, of course.