"And stabbing." Evan shook his head. "Why couldn't he hit her, as you said. Needn't have killed her. Now half the top police in the West End will be all over the place!" A total exaggeration, at least so far, but it served his purpose. "More cider?"

Again Tom indicated his reply by shoving his mug over wordlessly, and Evan rose to oblige.

"Willie wouldn't do anything like that," Tom said when Evan returned. " 'E in't stupid."

"If I thought he had I wouldn't want to warn him," Evan answered. "I'd let him swing."

"Yeah," Tom agreed gloomily. "But w'en, eh? Not before the crushers 'as bin all over the place, an' everybody's bin upset and business ruined for all sorts!"

"Exactly." Evan hid his face in his mug. "So where's Willie?"

This time Tom did not equivocate. "Mincing Lane," he said dourly. "If'n yer wait there an hour or so 'e'll come by the pie stand there some time ternight. An' I daresay if'n yer tells 'im abaht this 'e'll be grateful, like." He knew Evan, whoever he was, would want something in return. That was the way of life.

"Thank you." Evan left his mug half empty; Tom would be only too pleased to finish it for him.”I daresay I'll try that. G'night."

“G'night." Tom appropriated the half mug before any over-zealous barman could remove it.

Evan went out into the rapidly chilling evening and walked briskly, collar turned up, looking neither to right nor left, until he turned into Mincing Lane and past the groups of idlers huddled in doorways. He found the eel pie seller with his barrow, a thin man with a stovepipe hat askew on his head, an apron around his waist, and a delicious smell issuing from the inside of containers balanced in front of him.

Evan bought a pie and ate it with enjoyment, the hot pastry crunching and flaking and the eel flesh delicate on his tongue.

"Seen Willie Durkins?" he said presently.

"Not ternight." The man was careful: it did not do to give information for nothing, and without knowing to whom.