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sounded heavy with sleep and who complained bitterly about being disturbed in the middle of the night. Immediately Rollison gave his name, the sleepiness seemed to vanish and the protests might never have been uttered.
    â€œWhy, Mr. Ar, wot a pleasure! I never expected to ‘ear from you ter-night, that’s a fact. Can I do anyfink for you, Mr. Ar?”
    â€œYes, Bill,” said Rollison, “there’s a family named Whiting, living at 49, Little Lane, off Jupe Street. They’ve three children. I want you to look after them.”
    â€œThey in trouble?”
    â€œA Mr. Harry Keller doesn’t like them,” said Rollison.
    There was no immediate response.
    He needed no more telling that Harry Keller meant something to Bill Ebbutt, who kept a pub in the Mile End Road, and also ran a boxing gymnasium where many of the more promising boxers were trained and managed. The war had whittled down the number of young hopes, but the older men still trained and some young men in reserved occupations went there regularly. Bill Ebbutt’s gymnasium was an unofficial club with hundreds of members, most of them connected with the ring, all well-trained and packing a pretty punch. No man who belonged to Bill’s ‘club’ dabbled in the more vicious types of crime. The police would have liked to interview some, but even they admitted that members of the club were usually law-abiding.
    Bill broke his silence at last.
    â€œThat’s all right, Mr. Ar. I’ll look arter the kids. It’ll take a lot of men, mind yer – it might run you into a bit o’ money, too, because they won’t be able to do their ord’nary jobs while they’re watching.”
    â€œThere’s no limit to expenses,” Rollison said.
    â€œThat’s good of you, Mr. Ar! P’raps you’ll come rahnd and see me when yer can?”
    â€œI will, before long,” promised Rollison. “How soon can you get men to Little Lane?”
    â€œTake me the best par’ve a coupla hours,” declared Bill.
    â€œMake it less if you can,” urged Rollison, and rang off.
    Walking back to Little Lane, he mused on the conversation. What had been left unsaid, a great deal. Ebbutt had preferred not to speak about Keller on the telephone, which was curious, and had presented an urgent plea for Rollison to go to see him. Something about Keller obviously worried Bill.
    An hour and a half later, a knock at the door of Whiting’s house heralded the arrival of three men from the gymnasium. Rollison spoke to them, to make sure that they were genuine ‘club’ members, gave instructions, and left the house with Kemp.
    In the street, Kemp asked gruffly: “Who are those fellows, Rollison?”
    â€œGood friends of mine, and they will be friends of yours if you show them what you can do with your fists,” said Rollison. By the time he had finished explaining, they were back at the church hall.
    As they attempted to tidy up the small room which Kemp used, Rollison spoke thoughtfully. “I should have fixed a bodyguard for you, too.”
    â€œDon’t worry about me,” said Kemp. “You’ve taken a load off my mind, and I don’t know how to say thanks. I can look after myself, but when it comes to other people being victimised—” He broke off, and smiled. “You certainly know your way about!”
    Rollison was on the point of leaving when a taxi drew up outside and Jolly arrived.
    He had little information. No word of the trouble at the hall had yet reached Freddie Day or others whom Jolly had seen, but the hostility towards Kemp was already well known. Not until they were in the taxi, the driver of which was still in a good humour, did Jolly confide that the majority were taking a neutral attitude. Kemp had not yet made a very good impression among his parishioners.
    â€œHe will,” said Rollison, confidently.
    He told Jolly what had happened,