Judith pushed past into a large room crammed with Victorian furniture and bric-a-brac and photographs in sepia and black-and-white. The old-fashioned candlestick telephone was on a round table near the window.

“Well!” gasped Mrs Tirrell.

But Judith was dialling. Mayfair 81871—her finger was unsteady and cold. They knew where Jim was. Brrr-brrr, brr-brr. Would the man never answer?

“Is anything the matter?” Mrs Tirrell’s voice was shrill.

“No, it’s all right.”

Brrr-brrr, brrr-brrr. Perhaps Rollison’s flat was empty. If it were, that would mean serious delay—dangerous delay. It was useless to tell herself there was no hurry; she had to see Jim. Minutes counted—seconds counted. It was as if every moment of twenty-nine days was hanging in the balance, dependent on what happened in the next half-hour. A large brass clock beneath a glass cover stood on a wall-bracket, ticking loudly. Tick-tock, tick-tock; brrr-brrr, brrr-brrr. It was five minutes to four.

Would they never answer? Jolly or Higginbottom, it didn’t matter which—

The ringing sound stopped and a man spoke rather breathlessly: any other time Judith might have smiled at the gasping tone combined with an obvious effort to be precise.

“This is the—residence of—the Hon. Richard—”

“I’m speaking for Mr Rollison. He told me to ask for Mr Jolly or—”

“This is Jolly, madam.”

“You—” She was conscious of the eager gaze from Mrs Tirrell’s protuberant, fishy eyes, of the difficulty of saying exactly what she wanted without telling the woman too much and without being long-winded and so wasting time. “Will you please come here—to 23, Knoll Road, Chelsea—at once? And will you ask Mr Higginbottom to meet—to meet Mr Rollison at the corner of Asham Street, Wapping, in half an hour?”

The man at the other end had regained his breath.

“I have the message, Miss. Who is speaking, please?”