The woman was bending over the motor-cyclist.

Rollison felt nausea, and was touched with the chill of horror. There was blood on the man’s face and on one hand, and he lay so still that he might be dead. The strange thing was the silence from the nearby houses, from which the women stared from their windows; and the silence of the woman now kneeling by the side of the man who lay so still.

Rollison asked heavily: “How is he?” as he joined her.

She looked up, a little woman with thin features and a spiteful face. Her lips were twisted viciously and her eyes were full of hate, and she spat at him:

“He’s dead and you killed him! Murderer, that’s what you are. Murderer! You ought to be strung up.”

As her words fell on the sunlit air, another woman came out of the little doorway of her tiny house and took up the accusing cry.

“Murderer!” she screamed at him. “Murderer!”

Another shout came and another. There were men’s voices as well as women’s, youth’s as well as men’s. Never in his life had Rollison felt such menace or known a greater fear.

Then dozens of youths appeared at a corner, and came slowly, menacingly, towards him.

CHAPTER FIVE

MOB

The Toff could run away.

There was both time and opportunity. The youths were coming from the corner where the lorry had turned, and the car was facing away from them in the other direction. Two or three women and several toddlers were between Rollison and the car, but he could reach it in time to get away; despite their menace the youths were too far off to prevent him.

Or the Toff could stay and face it out.

He knew what that could mean, what it probably would mean.