“Let’s take a butcher’s.”

Peregrine stood back and the man stooped. He tried the key, delicately at first and then with force. “Not a hope,” he wheezed. “ ’Alf a mo’.”

He walked away, crossed the street and disappeared between two low buildings and down a narrow passageway that seemed to lead to the river.

“Damnation!” Peregrine thought. “He’s taken the key!”

Two gigantic lorries with canvas-covered loads roared down Wharfingers Lane and past the theatre. The great locked doors shook and rattled and a flake of plaster fell on Peregrine’s hand. “It’s dying slowly,” he thought in a panic. “The Dolphin is being shaken to death.”

When the second lorry had gone by, there was the man again with a tin and a feather in one hand and the key in the other. He re-crossed the street and came through the portico.

“I’m very much obliged to you,” Peregrine said.

“No trouble, yer Royal ’Ighness,” said the man. He oiled the lock and after a little manipulation turned the key. “Kiss yer ’and,” he said. Then he pulled back the knob. The tongue inside the lock shifted with a loud clunk. He pushed the door and it moved a little. “Sweet as a nut,” said the man, and stepped away. “Well, dooty calls as the bloke said on ’is way to the gallers.”

“Wait a bit—” Peregrine said, “you must have a drink on me. Here.” He pushed three half-crowns into the man’s hand.

“Never say no to that one, Mister. Fanks. Jolly good luck.”

Peregrine longed to open the door but thought the man, who was evidently a curious fellow, might attach himself. He wanted to be alone in The Dolphin.

“Your job’s somewhere round about here?” he asked.

“Dahn Carboy Stairs. Phipps Bros. Drugs and that. Jobbins is the name. Caretaker. Uster be a lighterman but it done no good to me chubes. Well, so long, sir. Hope you give yerself a treat among them spooks. Best of British luck.”