The new footbridge stretched between the main ‘up’ and the main ‘down’, and a steeplechase was being run over it, what with everyone fleeing the gun. But one bowler-hatted man was running the opposite way, and battling through the on-rushing crowd: the Chief. I knew he’d been knocking about the station somewhere.

I bolted for the footbridge, and began fighting my way through the crowds in the wake of the Chief. A succession of ladies in summer muslin seemed to be pitched at me, and some wide-brimmed hats were scattered as I fought my way to the main ‘down’ where the Chief was closing on the three blokes.

As soon as we made the platform, the Chief slowed to a walk, gesturing me to stay well behind him. The gunman swung his revolver towards the Chief, saying, ‘Are you another of them?’

‘Another of what?’ asked the Chief.

‘Another of these bastards,’ he said, indicating the two roughs facing him.

This was not the common run of shootist. For a start, he wore spectacles. He was also decently spoken and smartly turned out — and alongside his polished boots rested a good-quality leather valise. The two standing before him — blokes of a lower class — neither moved nor spoke, but watched the gun, which was a revolver of the American type.

‘We’re all staying right here until the police come,’ said the man with the gun.

‘I am a policeman, you fucking idiot,’ said the Chief, and that was him all over — rough and ready.

‘Well, you don’t look like one,’ said the man with the gun.

‘I happen to be in a plain suit,’ said the Chief, and I wondered why he did not hold up his warrant card. I would have come forward and shown my own, but it was in the pocket of my suit coat in the police office.

‘Plain suit?’ said the gunman, eyeing the Chief. ‘ Dirty suit, more like.’