Then Rollison said again: “Where’s Mellor?”

Waleski muttered something; she didn’t hear what it was. But as he finished, Rollison called out: “Judith!”

She flung the door open and went back into the room.

Waleski still sat in the chair; the blood was streaming from his nose and his lips were a red splodge. Blood had spattered his bright tie and his collar and shirt and he leaned back as if he were physically exhausted.

Rollison was rubbing the knuckles of his right hand. His eyes were glowing; obviously he had learned what he wanted.

Yet she burst out: “Has he told you where—”

“Yes. Is there a telephone in the house?”

“Downstairs, I—”

“Hurry down and telephone Mayfair 81871— my flat. The man who answers will be Jolly or Higginbottom. Say I want Jolly to come here at once and Higginbottom to meet me at the corner of Asham Street—Asham Street, Wapping—in half an hour. Have you got that?”

She was already fumbling for the door-key and nodded as she went out.

“Tell Jolly I won’t be in for tea” said Rollison.

*     *     *

It was as if a miracle had happened.

He had found out where Jim was; had almost proved that Jim hadn’t killed Galloway. He had opened up a new, bright world. Judith felt her nerves jumping as she hurried downstairs, slipped on the bottom step and saved herself by grabbing the banister rail. She had to wait for a moment, to get her breath back. Then she tapped on the door of the downstairs flat. The door was opened by Mrs Tirrell, her landlady.

“May I—”

Mrs Tirrell, a short, fat woman with shiny black braided hair, a pendulous underlip and a hooked nose, raised her hands in alarm and exclaimed:

“What on earth’s the matter, Miss Lome? What—”

“I must use your telephone—quickly, please.”