“Oh, dear,” said Rollison, blankly.

“I mean hurt,” repeated Keller, harshly. “It won’t help you to run to the dicks. They can’t get at me and I’m too powerful for you on your own. It’s time you stayed where you belong.”

“Where do you think that is?” asked Rollison.

“In the West End with all your fancy tarts and your wealthy friends,” said Keller. “This isn’t a game for you, Rollison. You might get your hands dirty.” Rollison watched his mobile features, seeing the way his lips curled and his eyebrows rose. Keller was an impressive personality, it would be folly to underestimate him. “You stay in Mayfair, Rollison, and if you must stick your nose into things that don’t concern you, there’s plenty of cleaning up to be done in your own back yard. But you wouldn’t try that, would you? You might find your precious friends are mixed up in it.”

“In what?” asked Rollison, obtusely.

“You know what,” rasped Keller. “I’m telling you to stick around your own back yard and not meddle in mine.”

“A whole world, all of your own?” asked Rollison.

“If you won’t take a warning, don’t blame me for anything that happens. I don’t want to interfere with you. You let me alone, I’ll let you alone.”

“Now who could say fairer than that?” asked Rollison, lightly. “What would you say if a policeman were to walk into the flat this minute?” He studied the man curiously and thought he had him guessing. “I don’t suggest that it’s likely but I have all sorts of queer friends. I’d say to him: “Bill”—or Percy or whatever his name happened to be— “this is Harry Keller. He employed Spike Adams and Tom Harris to beat up the Rev Ronald Kemp. He employed others to wreck a mission hall and do some hundreds of pounds worth of damage. He stole the knife belonging to a man named Craik and killed a third party with the said Craik’s knife."“