“I expect he has invited it,” murmured Jolly, primly. “I can’t imagine the people near the docks taking kindly to being driven by a parson.”

“No. And he would try to drive,” mused Rollison. The journey took a little more than half an hour. On the last lap, Jolly had to direct the driver to Jupe Street, a narrow thoroughfare leading off Whitechapel Road. The Mission Hall was at the far end. They passed row upon row of mean houses and some bare patches and did not see any light until the taxi stopped. Then a streak of light from an open door shone right across an alleyway.

“Tell ‘em to put that light aht,” growled the driver. Rollison and Jolly hurried down the alley to the door and, as they drew nearer, they caught sight of Kemp standing just inside the room.

Jolly stood outside the door as Rollison went in.

Kemp must have heard him but did not turn round.

He was standing quite still, his chin thrust forward and his face set. He was looking at the wreckage of chairs and forms and benches, curtains and pictures. The hall was not a large one and at the far end was a stage with doors on either side; they were open and inside both rooms Rollison saw further upheaval. Whoever had been here had worked with frenzied malice. Most of the chairs were broken, the side walls had been daubed with white and brown paint and, on the wall behind the stage, written in badly-formed letters in red paint, were the words:

Clear out, Kemp. We don’t want yore kind ere.

CHAPTER TWO

EVIDENCE OF MALICE

“Who is that?” asked Kemp, without looking round. “Rollison,” said Rollison. “Oh.” The younger man turned slowly and looked into the Toff’s face. His own held a curiously drawn expression—as if the past hour had put years on to his life. “Someone doesn’t like me,” he said, harshly. “That can cut both ways,” said Rollison, lightly.