The man glanced at the brush, as if trying to make up his mind whether Rollison meant to use it—and Rollison darted forward and struck him on the top of the head.

“Just to show you that I mean business,” said Rollison. “And if you get really awkward, I’ll try your knife. Think how much trouble and pain you can save by opening your mouth.”

The man darted a swift glance at Barbara.

“She—she’s got them!” he gasped.

“Don’t be silly,” said Barbara, as she sat down again.

“She has!” barked the man.

“She has—she hasn’t—she has—she hasn’t—now there isn’t any more fluff on the puff-ball,” said Rollison, his voice hardening. Mrs Allen, whom are those letters addressed to?”

“Letters?” Barbara was startled.

“Those you took out of his pocket.”

Barbara picked them up; there were three. The man by the wall looked from Rollison to her and back again as she read.

They’re all addressed to—to Harold Blane,” Barbara said quickly.

“Harold Blane,” echoed Rollison. “Harold, I am not fooling. I’m going to hear your story before you leave here if I have to break your bones to make you talk. You came here to get some diamonds which you think Mrs Allen keeps in the flat —what makes you think so?”

“They must be here,” muttered Blane. “They must be !”

“Oh, a case of logic, is it?” asked Rollison. “Some of your boy friends searched the flat this afternoon and found nothing. Others—maybe you were among them—persuaded Bob Allen to take a little ride with you, and you made sure he hadn’t got them on him, so—they must be here. Right?”

“You—you know,” gasped Blane.

“Just a little guess-work, Harold,” said Rollison, and turned to Barbara. “Ever seen this creature before?”