“The more you wriggle, the more it will hurt,” Rollison said quietly.

No one appeared to have heard the scuffle and the only sounds were their voices and Kemp’s footsteps. Kemp came up, carrying a man in his arms and Rollison spoke mildly.

“I don’t like ribbing you all the time, old chap, but if he comes round he could get his hands on your throat, or gouge your eyes out or knee you in the stomach. Put him over your shoulder in a fireman’s hold and keep a grip on one of his wrists. That’s better!” Although he could not see clearly in the light of the torch, he approved the speed with which Kemp took his advice. Together, they went to the hall. The squealing of the Toff’s captive grew louder. Still no one appeared to hear them and they entered the hall without having encountered a soul.

Kemp lowered his victim to a broken bench.

“Surely some one heard us?” he said.

Rollison chuckled.

“Half Jupe Street heard us but it wasn’t their business. We haven’t done so badly, have we?”

“Did you expect this?”

“I wasn’t altogether surprised,” admitted Rollison, “but I didn’t hope for a brace of them. Nasty-looking brutes, aren’t they? Have you ever seen either of them before?”

“No,” said Kemp.

Looped round the right wrist of his victim, who was still unconscious but not badly hurt, was a cosh—a weapon not unlike a rubber truncheon but smooth and round at one end and narrow near the wrist. He pulled it off; it was flexible and he swished it through the air, letting it go perilously close to the man who was cowering back against the wall. The weapon missed his head by inches.

“No!” he gasped. “No!”

“Sorry,” said Rollison, perfunctorily. “Do you know this weapon, Kemp?”

“No,” said Kemp again.

“It’s a common or garden cosh,” Rollison told him, “and it’s as popular here as the knuckle-duster, razor and flick-knife but less dangerous.