If anyone knew anything at all, they were more afraid of the perpetrators, or of their peers, than of the police, at least in the form of Evan and P.C. Shotts.

At four o'clock as it was growing dark again, and bitterly cold, Shotts said he would make one or two more enquiries in the public house where he had a few acquaintances, and Evan took his leave to go to the hospital and see what Dr. Riley had to say. He had been dreading it because he did not want to have to think of the younger man again, the one who had been still alive in that dreadful place. The memory of it made him feel cold and sick. He was too tired to find the strength inside himself to overcome it.

He said good-day to Shotts and walked briskly in the general direction of Regent Street, where he knew he could find a hansom.

In St. Thomas's hospital he went straight to the morgue. He would look at the bodies and deduce what he could for himself, and then ask Riley to explain to him what else there was to learn. He hated morgues, but everyone he knew felt the same. His clothes always seemed to smell of vinegar and lye afterwards, and he never felt as if the damp were out of them.

"Yes, sir," the attendant said dutifully when he had identified himself. "Doc Riley said as you'd be 'ere some time, prob'ly today. I only got one body for yer. Other one in't dead yet. Doc says as 'e might pull through. Never know. Poor devil. Still, I suppose yer want ter see the one I got." It was not a question. He had been here long enough to know the answer. Young policemen like Evan never came for anything else.

"Thank you," Evan accepted, feeling a sudden surge of relief that the young man was still alive. He realised now how much he had been hoping he would be. And yet at the same time it meant he would wake up to so much pain, and a long, slow fight to recover, and Evan dreaded that, and his own necessity for being part of it.