“There is sense but no reason for it,” said Rollison. “Who first suggested that I might help?”

“The Whitings,” said Kemp.

“We really ought to go to see them,” said Rollison, glancing at his watch. “It’s half-past one, but—”

“We can’t knock them up at this time of night!”

“That won’t worry them,” said Rollison, confidently.

“Look here!” said Kemp, “never mind the Whitings—why did you let those men go?”

“Is that still worrying you?” asked Rollison. “They’ll run straight to Keller and tell him about me,” said Rollison. “It’s one thing to persecute a newcomer to the district—and there’s a peculiar idea that curates can’t hit back but Spike knows better now!—and another thing to operate against me. I know the East End and I’ve a lot of friends here. It will be interesting to see what happens when Keller gets to know I’m involved.”

“I give up!” exclaimed Kemp.

“Not you, you’ve only just started! Let’s see the Whitings.” Kemp protested half-heartedly but Rollison was firm. This time, no one followed them from the hall. The stars were still out and a breeze from the river made it cooler. Rollison walked leisurely and Kemp towered beside him, occasionally starting to speak but always thinking better of it. They were halfway down Little Lane, shining their torches on the numbers of the houses, when Kemp said abruptly:

“I say, what about your man?”

“He’ll be all right.”

“But you were going to leave a message for him!”

“He won’t be finished for another hour or more,” said Rollison. “If he should get back and find us gone, he’ll telephone my flat. Don’t worry about Jolly. What was the Whitings’ number?”

“Forty-nine,” Kemp told him.

“Forty-three-five-seven-nine,” said Rollison. “Here we are.”

The house was one of a long, narrow terrace which, in daylight, looked dreary and dilapidated. There were no pavements in Little Lane and the road was cobbled. An odour of decay and stale cooking hung about the lane but there was no chink of light from any window, no sign of anyone awake.