“I’ve laid out your clothes, sir,” said Jolly. “A flannel suit will be all right, won’t it?”

“Yes, thanks. What do you make of him?”

T think he is in a somewhat chastened mood now, sir, and it should be beneficial,” said Jolly. “It is rather an intriguing story, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Do you know Craik?”

“I seem to have heard the name,” said Jolly. “I think he owns a small general store near St. Guy’s.”

“We’ll know soon,” said Rollison. “Try to get Grice on the “phone, will you? If he’s not at the Yard, try his home. Oh—find out first who arrested Craik.”

“Very good, sir,” said Jolly.

Superintendent Grice of Scotland Yard was neither at the Yard nor at his home—he was away for a few days, on a well-earned holiday. Det Sergeant Bray of the Yard had detained Craik and Inspector Chumley—an easy-going, genial individual from the AZ Division—had charged him.

“A curious mixture,” Rollison reflected, “Bray from the Yard doing work in the Division and handing it over to Chumley. Chumley’s usually all right, although he’s a bit of a smiler. I’ll look in and see him after I’ve been to Jupe Street.”

“Will you want me, sir?” inquired Jolly.

“Come, if you feel like it,” said Rollison, “but I don’t expect much tonight.”

They set out together and were lucky in finding a taxi in Piccadilly with a driver who put himself at their disposal for the night.

“I ‘ope that’s long enough, sir,” he said out of the darkness. “If it isn’t, I’ll pay you overtime,” promised Rollison and was rewarded by gusty laughter and the comforting knowledge that he had put the man in a good humour.

Jolly opened the windows to admit a cool, welcome breeze. “I wonder how the bellicose curate is getting on?” said Rollison, sotto voce. “Did you or did you not take to him, Jolly?”

“I did rather, sir, yes.”

“If you hadn’t, you wouldn’t have admitted him,” said Rollison. “But I doubt whether you could have kept him out. That young man is militant-minded and he seems to be getting a raw deal.”