Compared with Sir Roland, Mr. Entwhistle’s speech was pure Liberalism, all honey and tolerance. Sir Roland, on the other hand, called again for a Businessman’s Government—and government by decree. There is much in what he says . . . 

The ringing of the telephone made Roger start; he let it ring again, picked it up and then announced, “West,” in a very quiet voice.

“Superintendent Cole of North Western is on the line, sir.”

“Ah. Thanks.” The call and the fact that it might bring some good news jolted Roger out of his depression, and he went on, “Blackie?”

“Just one moment, sir,” a man responded. Perhaps it was as well that he had a few moments in which to think. Blackie Cole had charge of a curiously mixed division. Some parts of Hampstead were exclusive and expensive, boasting many of the most opulent homes in London. Others were overcrowded; big, once proud homes had been divided into flats. There and all about the village were “clubs” which were little more than excuses for smoking pot, for sex-parties, for perversion of all kinds. It was most discreetly done, partly because Cole had the district under very tight control. He knew practically everything that went on, when to jump on a “club” which was moving from pot to heroin and other more injurious drugs, when sex-parties were being overdone. He was renowned for his skill in picking out clubs where a number of new “members” from the provinces were starting the pot habit. He raided these and had a remarkable number of successes in sending teenagers back to their homes and away from the temptations of London’s lower night life.

At last, Cole came on the line.

“Sorry to keep you, Handsome. I had a call which might have changed my report but instead it’s strengthened it. I feel very bad that I didn’t have this for you earlier. The Doon Club is quite genuine and wholly free from drugs. I’ve checked on twenty-one of its membership of thirty, and there isn’t a whisper of suspicion.