Adams broke across the words.

“If you run me in, I’ll see you get beaten up. Got me?”

“It’s like that, is it?” asked Rollison, thrusting a hand into his pocket and swinging the cosh with the other. “I don’t think you’ve recognised me, Spike.”

“I don’t give a damn who you are!”

“You should, you know,” said Rollison. “For now I come to think of it, I’ve seen and heard a lot about you. Try using your memory.” When Adams kept silent, he went on in an amiable tone: “Come! You should be able to do better than this!”

A remarkable change came over Spike Adams’s face. One moment he was glaring defiance; the next he was staring incredulously and defiance seemed to ooze away from him. His body relaxed and his lips began to move but he only managed to stutter. Rollison stood smiling down at him. Kemp gave up all pretence of watching the man on the stage.

“Gawd!” exclaimed Spike, at last, “you’re the Toff!”

“That’s right, Spike.”

“You—you ain’t in this affair.”

“Didn’t Harry Keller tell you I was,” asked Rollison. “He should be fair, shouldn’t he?” His voice changed. “Let’s have it: what do you know?”

Spike began to talk freely.

“I dunno much, mister, that’s a fact. Keller gimme the orders, said I was to beat the parson up. That’s all. He never said I might run inter the Toff. Listen, mister, you wouldn’t run me in, would you? I ’ad to do it, if I hadn’t, Keller would’ve put some of the boys on me.”

“Which boys?” asked Rollison.

“He’s got a dozen in his mob!”

“Harry Keller and his dozen, is it?” mused Rollison. “Where can I find Keller?”