Rollison beamed at her. “Good afternoon!”

“G-g-good afternoon, sir.”

There were three floors. At the top, Judith’s door faced the head of the stairs and, as they reached the landing, the door opened.

“Lock the door when we get in,” said Rollison.

He gave his prisoner a final shove into the room and followed him. Judith closed and locked the door and slipped the key into a pocket of her smock. She looked at Rollison, not at the prisoner who stood with his back to the desk, his hands bunched and held just in front of him. He was shorter than Judith and very broad. The wide spaced teeth showed as he breathed heavily, his nostrils moved, the dark eyes proved to be deep-set and the thick eyelashes gave him an unnatural look. He was spick-and-span: his shoes were highly polished, he wore a brightly coloured tie and a diamond tie-pin. The long jacket of his suit confirmed Rollison’s impression that it was of American cut.

“You’re asking for trouble,” he said again, thickly.

“We won’t go into that again,” said Rollison. “Sit down.” The man didn’t move. “I said sit down.” He didn’t raise his voice but something in its tone made the other shift to a chair and drop into it. “Judith, go and take his wallet out of his coat pocket.”

Judith obeyed, as if it were an everyday request; but there was no wallet, only some letters.

“They’ll do,” said Rollison. “Who are they addressed to?”

She looked at each of the four before she said:

“Stanislas Waleski at the Oxford Street Palace Hotel. Two say “Stanislas”, the others just “S”.”

“Thanks. Put them on the desk, will you? So we’ve a Pole who talks like an Englishman and wears American clothes. Quite a cosmopolitan, isn’t he? Waleski, lean forward —farther than that.”

Waleski’s head was thrust forward; he studied his shoes and the bald patch showed in the middle of the dark head.