She looked down at him for a moment, then turned to Mallory. “Are you going to call the police?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Not particularly.” She started to shake slightly. “Suddenly it seems colder.”

He slipped off his reefer jacket and hung it around her shoulders. “What you need is a drink. We’ll go back to the hotel. You can use my room while I get you a taxi.”

She nodded down at the bearded man. “Will he be all right?”

“His kind always are.”

He took her arm. They walked to the corner and turned into the street. It started to rain, a thin drizzle that beaded the iron railings like silver. There was a dull, aching pain in her ankle and the old houses floated in the fog, unreal and insubstantial, part of the dark dream from which she had yet to awaken, and the pavement seemed to move beneath her feet.

His arm was instantly around her, strong and reassuring, and she turned and smiled into the strange, pale face, the dark eyes. “I’ll be all right. A little dizzy, that’s all.”

The hotel sign swam out of the fog to meet them and they went through the entrance and mounted the rickety stairs. His room was at the end of the corridor and he opened the door, switched on the light and motioned her inside.

“Make yourself at home. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”

The room had that strange, rather dead, atmosphere typical of cheap hotels the world over. There was a strip of worn carpet on the floor, an iron bed, a cheap wardrobe and locker. The one touch of luxury was the washbasin in the corner by the window and she hobbled across to it.

Surprisingly, there was plenty of hot water and she washed her face and hands, then examined herself in the mirror that was screwed to the wall above the basin. The scratch on her cheek was only superficial, but her suit was ruined. Otherwise she seemed to have sustained no real damage. She was sitting on the edge of the bed examining her ankle when he returned.