The divisional report corroborated the story; division had found Smithson giving capable first aid by padding the wound and stopping the bleeding. He and Campbell had both made statements to the police, and Leeminster, who had been the divisional officer in charge that night, had had no reason to doubt their story.

Roger finished the handwritten report, and felt less anxious and troubled. He rang for Danizon, who came in promptly, looking freshly washed and brushed.

“Have these typed—the usual report copies,” Roger ordered, and added, “no—make it two more than the usual number.”

“Will—er—will the morning do?” asked Danizon.

“Why not this afternoon?” asked Roger, and glanced at his watch. “Good Lord—it’s six-fifteen! Yes, the morning will do. I’ll keep these meanwhile. You get off.” He fore- bore to ask where the sergeant was so anxious to go, put the reports in his brief-case to read at home, and then sat back and reflected over the day. He still could not think of Coppell without a rising sense of indignation, and that in itself was enough to make him disgruntled. He pushed his chair back and was about to get up when his telephone bell rang.

“Superintendent West,” he almost barked.

There was a slight pause before a familiar voice sounded.

“Hi, Dad!”

“Scoop!” Roger exclaimed, and could picture the big face of his elder son, Martin-called-Scoop; and also could imagine the faint smile on it.

“Don’t sound so horrified,” Scoop said, in a rather troubled voice.

“Just surprised!” said Roger. “It must be a year since you called me at the office. I—is everything all right?” he diverged suddenly. For on the last occasion Martin had telephoned him at the Yard it was to tell him that Janet, his wife, had fallen down some stairs and was at the hospital awaiting a doctor’s report.