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lines of print, but they were enough. The descriptions of the girl and himself were complete to the last detail. They had even got her name. The police were asking for information which would lead to their arrest for robbery.
    Silently he handed the paper back.
    “What of it?” he asked, scowling. “Why should it interest me?”
    “That could be you,” Mrs Wheeler said, stabbing the descriptions with a long dirty finger. “Couldn’t it?”
    “You’d better be careful what you’re saying,” he returned. “People can get into trouble making a mistake like that.”
    “She’s here, isn’t she? I heard you two talking,” Mrs Wheeler said, smirking. “Well, it’ll cost you seven pounds. That’s what she stole, wasn’t it? Come on, give me the money and get out. I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
    Ellis snarled at her. “All right,” he said, throwing the door open. “You think you’re clever, don’t you? Well, there she is. Look at her. There she is — the thief!”
    Mrs Wheeler eyed the girl with a hard smile. “Not much to look at, is she? But she suits you. You’re no beauty either. Well, fork up the money and get off. I don’t like having your type in the house.”
    The girl looked at Ellis, begging him to do something.
    “Give her the money,” Ellis said to her. “All of it and get out. She’s got you where she wants you.”
    Mrs Wheeler unwisely added: “And where I want you too, young man.”
    A cold, sick rage seized Ellis. He turned away. He heard Grace Clark open her handbag and then a murderous impulse to smash this old woman gripped him. He snatched up a gold-and-blue vase standing on the mantelpiece and turned. Mrs Wheeler was reaching for the money. She looked up, her mouth opening to scream, but Ellis smashed the vase down on her head before she could make a sound. The vase shattered in his hand. The woman fell heavily, her face a mask of blood.
    For one long second Ellis stood over her, staring down at her, then he ran to the door. Grace grabbed his arm.
    “Don’t leave her like that . . . you’ve hurt her,” she said in her toneless voice, her eyes terrified.
    Ellis rounded on her, paused. Movement in the street below attracted his attention. He looked out of the window. Coming from the café, a newspaper in her hand, was the girl who had served him. With her was a policeman. The girl was pointing to the little grey house, her face alight with excitement. Even the policeman looked interested and was hurrying himself.
    Ellis grabbed hold of the girl.
    “Now we’re both in the soup,” he said, shaking her. “We’re in this together. Understand? You and me . . . together. Come on. We’re getting out of here.”
    He dragged her down the stairs, along the dark passage to the back door.
     

CHAPTER FOUR
     
    The scar of the self-inflicted wound that had saved Ellis at Belsen was now an accusing finger pointing him out to anyone who had read his description in the newspapers.
    First it had been his voice, now it was the scar. He could see no way round the scar; it was even more dangerous than the betraying sound of his voice.
    His one thought was to get away; to hide somewhere until his shaken nerves had time to recover and he could think of a way out.
    The girl, Grace, and he had got away without difficulty from the little grey house. While the policeman was ringing at the front door they had slipped out the back way and had taken a taxi to King’s Cross station; from there, the underground to Baker Street.
    The taxi-driver had eyed Ellis’s scar with morbid interest. Ellis knew he wasn’t likely to forget the scar, and if he read the evening paper, he was certain to inform the police that he had driven a man and a girl answering to the descriptions of the wanted couple to King’s Cross. Well, that didn’t worry him. It was why he had taken the taxi to the terminus. He wanted the police to think he was travelling north.
    He made Grace buy the tickets to Baker Street station,