“Thanks for saving me the trouble,” murmured Rollison. “May I . . . ?”

He studied the cases for nearly an hour, and when he left Grice’s office, did not go straight to Gresham Terrace. At the wheel of a demure grey and cream Rolls-Bentley, at that juncture his favourite motor car, he drove along the Embankment, the narrow thronged streets of the City, and through the noisy, bustling brashness of the East End. He attracted more and more attention the poorer the neighbourhood, and was making people gape by the time he reached the Blue Dog, in the Mile End Road. It was nearly one o’clock. When he went into the saloon bar of the pub, leaving the magnificent motor car outside, a throng of boys and youths promptly surrounded it, and a policeman kept a protective eye on it from a corner.

Behind the bar was an enormous man wearing pincenez, serving pints of beer in pewter tankards and half pints in glasses, while a youth and a little man with a twisted nose served drinks at the other end; and with the drinks, pork pies, cheese rolls and sandwiches. Everything was normal and everyone seemed to be talking at once when the door opened to admit Rollison. From the moment he entered, the silence was so complete that the big man, Bill Ebbutt, looked up to see what it was all about. He was near-sighted, and peered intently before recognising Rollison. Then he gave an expansive grin, and rumbled:

“Always a pleasure to see you, Mr. Ar! Come on private business or a snifter?” He would drop his work behind the bar and give all his time to Rollison, if it were necessary.

“Later, Bill,” said Rollison, reaching the bar; and they shook hands. “I happened to be passing, and felt like some of your pork pies.”

“Help yourself,” said Ebbutt. “What are you going to wash ‘em down with?”

“Still keep that 4 X?”

“Don’t be daft,” said Ebbutt, “arf me business is with 4 X.” He took down a tankard, pulled a handle, and placed a foaming head of the beer in front of Rollison. Then he turned to a small man who had been waiting patiently for several minutes. “Your turn now, Charlie, and give Mr. Ar elbow room, there’s a good little boy.”