He served and wheezed and sweated, the saloon bar became more crowded and the smell of beer became much more pronounced. Then he said in a whisper which only Rollison could hear:

“Anyfink you want?”

“Bill,” said Rollison, in a loud, clear voice, “I am interested in a gentleman named Tiny Wallis and another named Mick Clay.”

For the second time in the past twenty minutes a hush fell upon all the people present, and into the hush a worried Bill Ebbutt said:

“You be careful, Mr. Ar, that Wallis is a killer, and Clay ain’t far behind.”

“Oh, they’re just a couple of blowhards,” said Rollison casually, and bit into a pie from which the jelly oozed enticingly. “Liz still make these with her own fair hands, Bill?”

“Never mind the pies,” Ebbutt said urgently, “Don’t you go and take chances with that pair, and whatever you do, don’t under-rate them, Mr. Ar. I’m see-rious.” He looked not only serious but solemn, and lowered his voice for greater effect. “You watch your step and don’t go an’ forget it.”

Rollison looked at him straightly, and when no one else could possibly see, gave the plainest of winks.

“. . . and from what the police have told me, I can’t understand why you let them worry you,” he went on, quite regardless. “Wallis is the big shot and Clay’s his yes-man, isn’t that the set-up? Can you tell me where to find the pair?”

“No, Mr. Ar, I can’t, and that’s flat.”

“Can but won’t,” mused Rollison, and finished the pie and quaffed his beer, took another pie and completely changed the subject. “Why don’t you bring Liz over for an hour or so this weekend, Bill? It’s a good time. Jolly will be away and I’m on my own. Don’t know of a really good daily, do you?”

Ebbutt said huskily: “No, Mr. Ar, not one who’d come as far as your place every day. I’ll ask Liz, and if she can come it’ll be a pleasure. Friday’s the best day for me.”