Labar remembered that he could not look a reassuring object. He was hatless, dishevelled and dirty, and a bramble had caught his face in the wood making a sinister scratch across it.

“What is it?” demanded the square-chinned young man.

“I want a lift to the nearest telephone, and then to a doctor’s,” explained the inspector.

“What’s wrong? I’m a doctor.”

Labar fumbled in his pockets and found his warrant card, and his ordinary official card. He passed them over to the motorist. “I’m a police officer, as these will show you. There are just two things you can do for me. One is to send a telephone message. The other is to patch me up and not bother me with questions till some later time.”