Meanwhile the young man had taken Rollison’s elbow and was steering him through the front door of Number 22. Rollison touched the handrail.

“I can manage now, thanks,” he said. “Will you lead the way?”

The young man nodded and went ahead, his footsteps sounding clearly on the haircord stair-carpet. Rollison’s eyes, still stinging, were nevertheless much better than they had been, and by the time they reached his flat he could even make out the number on the door. Groping in his pocket, he took out a key and held it toward the stranger.

“Will you?”

“My pleasure,” the young man said, taking the key.

Once inside the flat, Rollison could find his way blindfolded, and he went straight to the bathroom, the young man by his side. He groped for taps; they were turned on for him, the water mixed to tepid warmth. He bathed his face gently, and when he had finished, the young man handed him a towel. Rollison dabbed himself dry, and found he could see quite well; most of the pain had gone.

“Thanks,” he said gratefully.

“At your service,” the young man said. “Feeling more yourself?”

“Much more. Let’s go into the living-room.”

Rollison led the way, noting how the other’s gaze moved swiftly to the Trophy Wall and was held in fascination. He waved his guest to a chair and proffered cigarettes from a carved Malaysian box. The young man selected one with care.

“My name,” he said, “is Lucifer Stride.”

“Ah,” said Rollison. “Lucifer Stride. Where you in Court this morning?”

“I was. Tell me, Mr Rollison—” the young man leaned forward in his chair— “do you think you can help Madam Melinska and Miss Lister?”

Rollison, vision now nearly normal, was watching him intently. His visitor’s eyes were sharper than he had thought, rather deep-set and close together. His age was around the middle twenties. By the intensity of his expression, Rollison could see that the asking of this question was the entire purpose of his visit.