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hard core of common sense in most of the C.I.D. men forced them to admit that Rollison had scored some remarkable successes, especially in cases which the orthodox police methods found difficult to break. One group of Yard officers, mostly among the lower ranks, regarded Rollison with great goodwill, because he was a constant thorn in the flesh of authority and of smugness and complacency. He asked no more of a man than he should do his job properly. If there were times when he made a fool of a senior officer, there were dozens of others when junior officers had reason to thank him for help, often given anonymously.
    Whatever the attitude of any one Yard man to wards Rollison, one thing was certain; at the Yard, as well as in the East End, the man known as the Toff would not be ignored.
    In those early hours, Grice decided that he would be mildly censorious and a little heavy handed. That would probably make no difference to Rollison’s course of action, but might goad him into saying more than he intended to say. For Grice took it for granted that in spite of what he had been told, Rollison had in fact been interested in the mysterious French girl, and in Downing, before Ebbutt had sent his message.
    Jolly opened the door to him.
    â€œHallo, Jolly,” said Grice, almost heartily. “Still up.”
    â€œThere has been a little excitement, Mr. Grice,” said Jolly. He stood aside, watching the Superintendent closely, getting keen satisfaction from Grice’s exclamation, when Grice saw the man sitting against the wall. “I think Mr. Rollison can see you,” added Jolly, with mild malice. “Please come in.”
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Chapter Five
Bright Morning
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    Grice was tall and rangy of figure, with brown hair going thin on top, brown eyes, a sallow complexion; he looked rather like a wax figure. On one side of his face and forehead was an ugly red scar, the result of an explosion when he had been working on a case with Rollison. He had a pointed chin and a prominent nose, the skin stretching so tightly across the bridge that there it was almost white.
    He had learned to take nothing for granted when on a visit to Gresham Terrace, and recovered quickly from the shock of seeing the man on the floor.
    Rollison appeared at the doorway, a dressing-gown over his singlet and trousers.
    â€œWelcome, Bill! You’re late!”
    â€œToo late,” said Grice. “If I’d started a bit earlier I might have kept you out of mischief.”
    â€œThe undying optimist,” beamed Rollison. “Let the Frenchie be for a bit, and I’ll tell you the whole sad story. Including the part you won’t believe.”
    â€œThat’ll be most of it,” said Grice.
    â€œYou haven’t changed,” the Toff said sadly. They sat down in the big room, and Grice said, “Thanks,” when Jolly suggested coffee. It was a little after two o’clock.
    â€œFirst, Bill—two hours ago, I was sitting all peaceful like, brooding over my past sins, and I hadn’t a notion that violence would disturb the peaceful night,” the Toff began. “That’s the part you won’t believe. The rest …”
    Grice was a good listener, Rollison a believer in brevity. But he made the picture live, from the moment that Bill Ebbut had first telephoned. He came at last to his failure to make the Frenchman talk, then lit a cigarette and let smoke coil from his lips.
    â€œNice and untidy, isn’t it?”
    â€œAt least you had the sense to report at once. You must be losing your grip.”
    â€œThanks. That will make me rush like mad to tell the police about the antics of wicked men. Before you go on, what’s the news from Brill Street?”
    â€œNo one’s dead, if that’s what you mean.”
    â€œThat’s what I meant.” Rollison looked much more cheerful. “I was afraid one chap mightn’t come round.”
    â€œHe’s on the danger list,