“I think so, Bill.”

“Like me to come along?”

“I think I’ll take a desperate chance and go alone,” said Rollison dryly, and switched on the ignition. “I wouldn’t like to say what Jolly will think if they make a mess of my hair.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” said Ebbutt. “Donny’s an artist all right. Well, I’ll be seeing yer, Mr. Ar.” He thrust out a massive hand. “Take care of yourself.”

“You wouldn’t forget that I asked for that address would you?” murmured Rollison.

“Well, I never! ‘Ead like a sieve, that’s me,” said Ebbutt. “Okay, then. They live in the same ‘ouse, at . . .”

Rollison grinned, made a mental note of the address, shook hands with Ebbutt, and drove off. The children waved as he passed by, and several youths at the corner near the Blue Dog looked at him sulkily but without open malice. He turned into the Mile End Road, where the world was normal. A little woman pushing a pram with fair-haired twins in it saw him and waved wildly; but for the Toff, her husband would undoubtedly have been in prison; now he was working steady at the docks.

Rollison drove to Whitechapel Road. Parking wasn’t easy, but he found a spot a hundred yards or so away from Donny’s big establishment. He walked slowly towards it, not worried but curious; had he been followed? As far as he could tell, he had not.

He drew nearer Donny’s, his mind full of the man and what he knew of him. Donny was not a Donald or even donnish. In some way he had acquired the first name of Adonis, perhaps from parents with a wry sense of humour, for photographs proved that Adonis Sampson must have been the ugliest and puniest child born some fifty-five years ago.

He was no longer ugly, but his looks exerted a kind of fascination. He still looked puny, although that was almost certainly deceptive.