An enormous weight was lifted from Mo’s mind and her lips curved into a delighted smile. If Mrs Huxtable was keeping watch over the back door, then it was almost certain that Cyril would be sitting in the bow window watching the front of the house. Well, that must mean that whatever the cause for Jimmy’s non-appearance at the major’s house it was not because he had been captured. She retraced her steps and crept, bent double, along the front of the house, keeping well below the level of the sill, and listening hard. At first she could hear nothing, but then a deep irritated sigh came to her ears. A match flared and the red tip of a cigarette glowed, and she heard the creak of Mrs Huxtable’s rocking chair as Cyril shifted and sighed with frustration.

Now, elation made her careless. Jimmy was not here, and since Cyril was, it seemed most of her dread had been unnecessary. All that remained now was to go back to the major’s house in the quiet little street off Everton Road and await her brother’s arrival; why, he might already be there, and if he had gone up to the room she shared with Roseanne and found her missing . . . goodness, far from rescuing him she might have plunged him into real danger! Forgetting caution, Mo straightened up and fairly tore across the cobbles, hearing behind her a roar which warned her that Cyril had seen her and was already limbering up for pursuit.

Mo chuckled to herself. She had always been a very fast runner, and provided nobody got in her way she thought herself a match for Cyril. He was big and strong, but he was also overweight and consequently clumsy. She was sure she could lose him as soon as she left the main road for the tortuous and twisty little streets which were such a feature of the city.

She whipped on to the main road and heard a crash behind her. Risking a quick glance over her shoulder she saw Cyril sprawling on the pavement, and chuckled to herself as she heard him curse. Determined to take advantage of his fall she turned into the first little street she came to, certain that she could outrun him, but even as she swerved to avoid a cat which darted out of somebody’s porch she was seized and held in an iron grip whilst a voice in her ear said: ‘Got you! And don’t you call out.’

The voice was one she had never heard before and she realised with dismay that Cyril must have whistled up some of his fellow seamen to help in his pursuit of Jimmy and herself. As for calling out, what chance did she have? Her captor had clapped a large hand over her mouth and held her against his body, making escape or shouting impossible. But just as she was contemplating sinking her teeth into the muffling hand, the voice whispered: ‘Hush! I’m Jimmy’s pal . . . I’ll explain presently,’ and she saw Cyril lumbering into view, his big head swinging from side to side as he sought a glimpse of her. She heard a low chuckle in her ear and then an authoritative voice on the main road said briskly: ‘What’s your hurry, sir? No, don’t try to get away. When any member of the force asks a question, it’s because they want an answer.’