"God in heaven," he said huskily. "What happened here, Shotts? What kind of creature does this?" He did not use the name of the deity lightly. He was the son of a country parson, brought up in a small, rural community where everyone knew each other, for better or worse, and the sound of church bells rang out over manor house, farm labourer's cottage and publican's inn alike. He knew happiness and tragedy, kindness and all the usual sins of greed and envy.

Shotts, raised near this uglier, darker slum of London, found his imagination less challenged, but he still looked down at the young man with a shiver of compassion and fear for whoever could do this.

"Dunno, sir: but I 'ope we catch the bastard, and then I trust they'll 'ang 'im. Will if I 'ave anything ter do with it. Mind, catchin' 'im won't be that easy. Don't see nothin' ter go on so far. An' we can't count on much 'elp from them round 'ere.”

Evan knelt beside the second body and felt in the pockets to see if there was anything left which might at least identify him. His fingers brushed against the man's neck. He stopped, a shiver of incredulity going through him, almost horror. It was warm! Was it conceivable he was still alive?

If he was dead, then he had not been so for as long as the older man.

He might have lain in this freezing alley bleeding for hours!

"What is it?" Shotts demanded, staring at him, his eyes wide.

Evan held his hand in front of the man's nose and lips. He felt nothing, not the faintest warmth of breath.

Shotts bent and held the lamp closer.

Evan took out his pocket watch, polished the surface clean on the inside of his sleeve, then held it to the man's lips.

"What is it?" Shotts repeated, his voice high and sharp.

"I think he's alive!" Evan whispered. He drew the watch away and looked at it under the light. There was the faintest clouding of breath on it. "He is alive!" he said jubilantly. "Look!”