“Well, this is a night for callers,” he said, and went along quickly. It crossed through his mind that the girl might have come back, but the shadow against the glass was of a tall man.

He opened the door.

He recognised the massive man who had been on the bus, had first gone ahead and later turned the corner behind him, but he did not think beyond that; there was no outward cause for fear.

“Good evening,” he said.

“Your name Jones?”

“Yes.”

Jim had never seen anyone move more quickly. The man shot out a fist and thumped him on the nose. The blow sent him staggering, and the pain brought tears flooding to his eyes. He banged up against the wall. He heard the door slam, and could just make out the figure of the tall man, blurred through those tears. He put up clenched fists and struck out, but it was like striking a whirlwind. He felt a cruel blow at the side of his jaw, pain which no ordinary knuckles could have caused streaked through his cheek and head. He took another blow on the chest, so fierce and savage that he cried out.

Gasping and struggling, he tried to back away. The misty blur in front of his eyes was tinged red, and he felt as if every breath was tearing him apart. Then one blow smacked his head against the wall so heavily that he grunted, and lost consciousness.

He slumped down.

The tall man, who was breathing evenly and whose trilby was still firmly on his head, bent down and dragged him to one side, then opened the door. The little man was on the pavement, and he came hurrying in.

The door closed.

The little man looked down and said: “You’ve made a mess of him all right.”