Rollison knocked sharply on the door.

“I hope they don’t think it’s an awful nerve,” said Kemp.

“I hope you think Craik’s worth the trouble,” said Rollison, tartly.

“Oh—sorry!” Kemp made no further comment and Rollison knocked again but there was no answer.

“Do they live here on their own?” asked Rollison.

“There’s an old lady—Mrs Whiting’s mother—and three children,” said Kemp.

“No boarders?”

“I’ve never heard of any.”

Rollison knocked again. The sound echoed along the street and faded into a brooding silence but brought no response. Rollison rattled the letter box, bent down and peered inside. A faint glow of light showed at the far end of the passage.

“That’s peculiar,” he said. “Stay here, Kemp— don’t go away and don’t let anyone distract your attention.”

“Where—” began Kemp but he spoke to the darkness, for Rollison had disappeared, soundlessly.

Rollison hurried to the end of the lane then along Jupe Street to a narrow alley. There were tiny gardens here, back and front, for Jupe Street had been built when some measure of enlightenment had permeated Victorian minds and even East Enders had been allowed room in which to breathe.

There was no gateway to the alley.

Rollison counted the wooden gates as he passed, shining his torch until he reached Number 49. He put it out and opened a gate noisily. He left it open and walked with heavy tread for a few yards then switched off his torch and went on again stealthily, counting the houses by their roofs outlined against the starlit sky. He stopped at Number 47.

He thought he heard voices.

The back gate was open and he heard a man stirring—as if he were waiting inside the tiny yard and getting impatient. Soon a door opened and a sliver of light showed. It disappeared as the door closed.