He wished that he was, too.

He moved after them, drawing closer. It was too dark for him to see Kemp but he could just make out the figures of the others. Both were short men who moved easily and silently.

Kemp’s footsteps rang out clearly and the two short men quickened their pace.

Rollison followed suit, caring less now about being heard, but the others appeared too intent on their task to keep on the alert for anyone else.

Rollison suddenly shone his torch full on the two men who were within a few feet of Kemp. One of them had an arm upraised, and was holding a cosh.

“Look out, Kemp!” cried Rollison.

He broke into a run as Kemp swung round; the cosh appeared to strike him on the shoulder but with nothing like the power with which he struck at his assailant. The man toppled over before his companion swung round to get away—only to run straight into Rollison.

He tried to dodge aside; Rollison put out a leg and tripped him up.

“Are you all right?” he called to Kemp.

After a pause, Kemp called back in a strained voice.

“Rollison, I think I’ve hurt him.”

“Even if you’ve broken his neck, it wouldn’t rate as manslaughter! Is he unconscious?”

The man he had tripped up was foxing as he lay motionless on the floor and he kept the beam of light on him.

“Yes,” called Kemp.

“Make sure, then pick him up and take him back to the hall,” said Rollison. “I—ah!”

His own victim sprang to his feet like a spring-heeled-Jack and made to dart down the street but Rollison shot out a hand and caught his coat, yanking him back. He fended off an attempt to kick him in the stomach, got a grip on the man’s arm and held it behind his back in a hammer-lock. The man began to squeal.