‘He was born in Johannesburg, received a good education and is said to have read medicine for two years but would appear to have been from birth what used to be known as a “wrong-un”. His nickname was given him by his South African associates in crime and has been adopted by the police on both sides of the Atlantic. In Paris, I understand he is known as Le Folichon or “the frisky bloke”.

‘I’d like to pick up his story at the time of his highly ingenious escape from gaol which took place on the 7th May the year before last in Bolivia…’

One or two of his hearers wrote this down. He was giving an address by invitation to a ten-week course at the Police College.

‘By an outlandish coincidence,’ Alleyn said and his deep voice took on the note of continuous narrative, ‘I was personally involved in this affair: by personally, I mean, as a private individual as well as a policeman. It so happened that my wife—’

I

‘—above all it must be said of this most distinguished exhibition, that while in scope it is retrospective it is by no means definitive. The painter, one feels, above all her contemporaries, will continue to explore and penetrate: for her own and our sustained enjoyment.’

The painter in question muttered: ‘O Lord, O Lord,’ and laid aside the morning paper as stealthily as if she had stolen it. She left the dining-room, paid her bill, arranged to pick up her luggage in time to catch the London train and went for a stroll.

Her hotel was not far from the river. Summer sunshine defined alike ranks of unbudgingly Victorian mercantile buildings broken at irregular intervals by vast up-ended waffle-irons. Gothic spires, and a ham-fisted Town Hall poked up through the early mist. She turned her back on them and made downhill for the river.

As she drew near to it the character of the streets changed. They grew narrower and were cobbled. She passed a rope-walk and a shop called ‘Rutherfords, Riverview Chandlers’, a bakery smelling of new bread, a pawnbroker’s and a second-hand machine-parts shop. The river itself now glinted through gaps in the buildings and at the end of passages. When she finally came within full view of it she thought it beautiful. Not picturesque or grandiloquent but alive and positive, curving in and out of the city with historical authority. It was, she thought, a thing in its own right and the streets and wharves that attended upon it belonged to it and to themselves. ‘Wharf Lane’ she read, and took her way down it to the front. Rivercraft of all kinds were moored along the foreshore.