He looked up.

The advance guard of the youths were only a few yards away.

“This man isn’t dead,” Rollison said crisply. “He’s got a good chance if we hurry. Who has a bike?” One youth opened his mouth as if to say “I have’ and Rollison didn’t wait for him to change his mind. “You go and see if Dr. Scott’s in, quick. If he’s not, get Dr. Murphy. Anyone else here with a bike?” No one answered this time, and the first youth hesitated. Then Rollison recognised a little whippet of a boy, not vicious but easily led, and one of the fastest milers in the East End of London. “Here, Rolly, you beat all Olympic records up to the Blue Dog, the nearest telephone. Dial 999 and ask for an ambulance. Let’s see if you can still run!”

The youths wavered.

One of the women shouted at them: “What are you standing there for?”

That worked the miracle.

The youths turned and hurried, Rolly to run like a deer, with nothing in his mind but accepting the challenge, the other to leap on his bicycle as if his life depended on it, and pedal off furiously.

Rollison turned to the woman who had come first, and who was now silent.

“Do you live just here?”

She gave a quick, reluctant kind of nod, as if surprised into acknowledging the question.

“Wonderful! Get some blankets and a couple of hot water bottles, and put a couple of kettles on. They might come in useful.” Rollison was still on one knee beside the injured man, and he looked back at him as if taking it for granted that the woman would obey.

She did.

The danger had passed.

Whoever had urged and almost certainly bribed this East End mob to help against the Toff, had lost the first round.