Mallett stilled the cravings of his stomach with a cigarette. He was not one of those whose brains are stimulated by privation, and he felt exhausted and dispirited. He knew he was only at the beginning of his investigations and that he would need every ounce of his strength to cope with them. And how could an all-too-human detective attend to the matters in hand properly when his thoughts would keep straying to a nicely grilled steak and tomato, with boiled apple pudding and cheese to follow?

These epicurean reflections were cut short by the arrival of Crabtree. It was heralded by much blasphemous language which echoed down the corridor, broken by the blander tones of an escorting police officer. When the door opened Mallett saw a truculent face, surmounting a short and tubby frame. It would have been difficult to guess at Crabtree’s age. His grizzled hair and deeply lined cheeks were discounted by his muscular body and the vigour of his movements. “An old seaman,” said Mallett to himself. “Certainly he swears like one.”

Crabtree took the offensive at once.

“Now look ’ere,” he demanded, “what are you perishing cops after, anyway? I’ve done my time, ’aven’t I? Can’t you leave a chap alone?”

“Sit down,” said Mallett gently. “Where have you been all this time?”

“Been? In the lock-up, of course! Didn’t they tell you?”

“What lock-up?” asked Mallett.

“Why, Spellsborough, of course. Drunk and assault. And then as soon as I gets ’ome, one of your blasted flats comes round and pulls me off ’ere. What’s the game?”

Mallett became suddenly expansive and genial. He could, when necessary, adapt his manner to any company, and now, in his effort to put his visitor at his ease; he assumed an air of vulgar good-fellowship.

“Now look here, old man,” he began confidentially, “we’ve got nothing on you. We thought you could help us in the hell of a big job we’ve got on here. That’s all. I’m sorry about the Spellsborough business, but that’s not my fault, is it? If I’d known you were there, I’d have had you out in no time. But I suppose you knew too much to give your proper name down there, eh? Here, sit down and have a fag.”

Somewhat mollified, and deeply impressed by the inspector’s quite unfounded suggestion that he could have released a prisoner from the cells at Spellsborough whenever he wished, Crabtree accepted the cigarette and sat down.

“Name?” he said. “Course I didn’t give my name. Would you? Name of Crawford, I gave. And blowed if it wasn’t the same name as the perishing chairman of the beaks! Gawd, that was a bad break, wasn’t it?”

He guffawed at the recollection, and Mallett joined in with a discordant bray. Then he looked up at the officer who had brought in Crabtree and who was still waiting.