“Wot are you doin’ of? Eh? Wot are you doin’ of?”

Snub’s voice was muffled beneath the wet handkerchief.

“Get him on to my shoulder; I can manage.”

He went down three stairs. Rollison hoisted Mellor up a little, Snub twisted round until the unconscious man was over his shoulder, turned unsteadily and went downstairs. Rollison returned to the room and began to cough again; it would take a long time for the gas to clear. He saw the blue sheet of paper and the screwed-up envelope, put them in his pocket and, coughing painfully, went out.

“Answer me, can’t yer?”

“The police will answer you,” Snub said sharply. “Open the door.”

A draught of air swept upwards as the front door opened. Rollison went down and the old woman stood in the doorway, her fists clenched, eyes glaring with fright. Rollison touched her on the shoulder and she spun round. There was fear in her eyes because she knew what had happened to the pink-faced man who was hanging like a corpse over Snub’s shoulder.

Rollison said: “If the police come, don’t tell them that the Toff called.”

“The—torf?” She caught her breath.

“If they don’t come, just keep your mouth shut about everything,” Rollison said.

He pushed past her, into the street. Farther along, Snub was lifting Mellor into the back seat of the Rolls-Bentley; by the time Rollison arrived, he was getting into the driving-seat. He had taken off the handkerchief and had it in his hand. Two men and a young woman walked past, eyeing them curiously; two or three children stood and watched; there were faces at many of the windows. The silent spectators heard the engine start up but didn’t hear Snub say:

“Nearest hospital?”

“No. The clinic.”

“Oh, sure.”

As the car moved off, the children ran towards it and brushed their fingers along the shiny green wings, poking out their tongues at the driver. The old woman at Number 51 slammed the door.