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voices of the women made a background of sound, as did the shuffling of the feet of the youths who were drawing nearer. He saw three youths quicken their pace, and go behind him; they were to cut off his retreat. If he was going to run, this was his last chance.
    He needed a means of attack. Not with fists and not with weapons, not even with words. He turned with swift decisiveness upon the woman near the fallen motor-cyclist, and those who were supporting her. His face was set and bleak, and she got up and backed away, as if afraid that he would strike her. He went down on one knee beside the motor-cyclist, a man in his twenties. His forehead was raw and bleeding, the back of his right hand was lacerated, and blood was trickling down his lips. Rollison grasped his left wrist, feeling for the pulse, and stared down into the pallid face, as if he had no other thought in the world and it did not even occur to him that this mob would attack him.
    He looked up.
    The advance guard of the youths were only a few yards away.
    â€˜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, Oily, 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, Oily 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.
    â€˜Do you live just here?’
    She gave a quick, reluctant kind of nod, as if surprised into acknowledging the question.
    â€˜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.
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    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. Vicious, spiteful-looking youths, young brutes in a gang and in the right mood, were simply people. Crazy mixed-up kids? Young fools, who needed sharp treatment and firm discipline, who had as much good as bad in them if only it could be brought out. They began to move away, the threatening circle had broken already. The women were back in their houses, and soon one came running with a bright red eiderdown, which looked like the blood of a dozen men as the sunlight streamed upon it. She put it over the injured man and tucked it in, and Rollison stood up, glad to ease his knees. He took a gold case out of his pocket, lit a cigarette, and for the first time wiped his forehead, using the back of his hand. The sweat lay cold on his hand. He drew deeply on the cigarette, then looked at the nearest of three elderly men. Not far away, half a dozen others were running, and behind these Ebbutt came in an old T model Ford, the most ancient in London, and the smartest; the sun was shining brightly on its sky blue sides.
    â€˜Who saw that lunatic of a lorry driver?’ Rollison asked, as if it did not occur to him that this had been done deliberately. ‘Anyone get the number?’
    No one spoke.
    â€˜What happened?’ one of the older men