The little man swung round.

Rollison said: “If she breaks her neck, you’ll be hanged.”

He went forward, gun thrust out—and the little man turned and raced down the stairs.

If Rollison fired he might hit the woman who was still falling, her heavy body thudding from stair to stair.

The little man leapt over her to the landing and fled down the next flight. Rollison took two steps after him as the woman came to rest; and then he heard a sound from behind him.

It was Judith, getting slowly to her knees, one hand stretched out as if in supplication. In the gloom she looked deathly pale.

He said: “It’s all right, Judith. Take it easy.”

It was too late to stop the little man but he hurried down the stairs to the woman who lay inert, her legs doubled beneath her and one arm bent at an odd angle. Her black hair and clothes threw her pallor into greater relief. He knelt beside her and felt her pulse.

It was beating.

Judith stood at the top of the stairs.

“Where’s that telephone?” called Rollison.

“In her flat. The ground floor. Shall I—”

“You’d better come down with me,” said Rollison.

He straightened Mrs Tirrell’s legs and made sure that no bones were broken; but he didn’t touch her arm which obviously had a fracture. He felt her head and discovered a swelling on the back: she had caught her head on a stair and this had knocked her out.

Judith stood unnaturally still by his side.

“Just knocked out. She’ll be all right,” he assured her. He looked at the bleeding teeth-marks in his hand, wrapped a handkerchief round it and then took Judith’s arm. They went down the next flight of stairs and into the crowded parlour. “No one seems to have noticed the din, Judith. Are they used to rough-houses?”