“Thanks for seeing me,” said Kemp in a powerful voice. “You’re my last hope, Mr Rollison. Will you help me?”

“I might,” said Rollison, cautiously.

“For the love of Mike, don’t put me off with pretty phrases,” boomed the curate. “If you’re not prepared to help, say so.”

His fine, grey eyes were stormy. He seemed to be fighting to keep a firm hold on himself and his large hands were clenched. He looked at the Toff as if he were sure that his appeal would be turned down.

“It would be a help if I knew what you want me to do,” Rollison said mildly. “I can’t commit myself in advance.”

“I didn’t think it would be any use,” said Kemp, bitterly. “I never did believe in your reputation.”

“Don’t talk like an ass!” said Rollison, sharply enough to startle Kemp into silence. He offered him a cigarette and Kemp took one without shifting his gaze. They lit up and Rollison turned to a corner cupboard.

“Will you have a drink?”

“No, thanks,” said Kemp, and boomed out again: “It’s really serious, Rollison.” Angrily he watched the Toff pouring out whisky and adding soda water.

“Sure you won’t have one?” he asked.

“Well—yes, I will,” said Kemp. He stood with ill-concealed impatience while Rollison rang for Jolly and asked for ice. Rollison sipped the drink appreciatively, while Kemp swallowed half of his in a gulp, then spoke in a more composed voice.

“I’m sorry I let forth like that but I’m worried stiff and I was told you were the only man likely to help me.”

“Exactly what is the trouble?” asked the Toff.

“One of my church members has been charged with murder,” said Kemp, abruptly. “He was arrested a couple of hours ago. I couldn’t make any impression on the police, they practically told me to mind my own business.”

“Either you met a poor policeman,” said Rollison, with a twinkle in his eye, “or else one who didn’t like being told what a fool he was!”