His bewildered senses were dimly conscious of the dark figure bending over him, and fingers groping about his pockets. Then the assailant was gone, and he staggered uncertainly to his feet, supporting himself against the wall. He felt his head gingerly where the half-broken blow had taken effect. But his mind was not on his injuries.

“A woman again,” he muttered. “What a nerve. Practically on the doorstep of the police station. She certainly wanted something badly.” He stood for a moment to regain his shaken faculties. “I wonder if it could have been a cheque?” he asked aloud.

He walked unsteadily back to the station where the brandy retained for emergencies was called into requisition, and a hasty hue and cry⁠—which he knew to be hopeless⁠—organised. But all trace of his assailant had been lost. Nor, for some reason which he could not have satisfactorily accounted for to himself, did he suggest that the pursuers should take the direction of Streetly House.