“Let her alone!”

Car engines sounded, the screams and shouts merged into a dull roar, someone was sobbing, and all Rollison could see through his tears of pain was a haze of light and surges of colour and movement. Helpless, he stood absolutely still until a familiar voice sounded close by—Jolly’s voice.

“Let me pass, please, Let me pass. Thank you. Let me pass . . .”

Then Jolly was at Rollison’s side.

“Is it—” he began, anxiety roughening his words.

“Ammonia,” said Rollison. “What’s going on?”

“If you’ll come with me, sir—”

“What’s going on?”

“I’ll tell you what’s going on,” drawled the young man in the velvet jacket. “The little dears are tearing the old darling to pieces. Preserve, I pray, from the fair sex.”

Jolly ignored him. “There’s no cause to worry, sir. The police have the situation well in hand.”

“I wish to heaven I could see,” Rollison said testily.

“Permit me to be your eyes,” said the youth, still with the same affected drawl. “Two policemen are now protecting the old darling, and several worthy citizens are grappling with the little dears as if it gives them great pleasure.”

“Please come indoors, sir,” pleaded Jolly.

“Did they attack the woman who threw the ammonia?”

“I think so, sir.”

“They did indeed,” murmured the young man.

“Perhaps you’d be kind enough to help me upstairs,” said Rollison. “Jolly, will you go and find that woman and bring her after us—I’d like to talk to her.”

“Very well, sir,” said Jolly, his voice dull with disapproval. He made his way towards the woman, who was leaning against the railing outside the house, hair awry, an ugly weal on her cheek.