Kemp coloured. “Perhaps I was a bit hot-headed.”

“Who is the accused?” asked Rollison, tactfully.

“A man named Craik,” answered Kemp. “He’s a damned good fellow and I don’t mind admitting that without him I would have been absolutely lost.” He smoothed down his short hair and went on abruptly: “Craik was mixed up in a fight early this evening. One of the men was killed. He’d been stabbed. The police say that the knife was Craik’s.”

“Was it?” inquired Rollison.

“I don’t know but if it was, it was stolen.”

“It might have been,” conceded Rollison. “Do you know what the fight was about?”

“As far as I can gather, there was a lot of foul talk going on, and some of the fellows baited Craik—apparently they didn’t approve of me. I know he shouldn’t have taken it so badly but— well, I don’t believe that he used a knife.”

“So Craik started the fighting,” remarked Rollison.

“I don’t know about that. He answered them pretty stoutly, as far as I can gather, and before anyone knew where he was, the scuffle started. There are dozens of such brawls every night and no one would have thought much about it but for the—er—accident.”

Rollison regarded the young parson thoughtfully.

“I’ll do what I can,” he said, cautiously, “but I must warn you, it’s no use calling murder an accident and no use whitewashing a man because you happen to like him. I don’t say you’re wrong but you’ve got a tough crowd in your parish and you’ll find a streak of violence in unexpected people. Don’t get this thing out of perspective. The English law has a curious habit of doing the right thing in the long run, too.”

Kemp spoke reluctantly.

“I suppose you’re right but—well, what with one thing and another, I feel pretty sore.” Rollison allowed that understatement to pass without comment. “You’re serious?” added the curate, more eagerly. “You will try to help?”

“Yes,” promised Rollison.

“Good man! I—” Kemp looked embarrassed. “I’m afraid I was extremely rude just now.”