I walked down Jermyn Street, and at the corner of Duke Street passed a group of young men. They were in evening dress, had been dining somewhere, and were going on to a music-hall. One of them was Mr. Marmaduke Jopley.

He saw me and stopped short.

“By God, the murderer!” he cried. “Here, you fellows, hold him! That’s Hannay, the man who did the Portland Place murder!” He gripped me by the arm, and the others crowded round. I wasn’t looking for any trouble, but my ill-temper made me play the fool. A policeman came up, and I should have told him the truth, and, if he didn’t believe it, demanded to be taken to Scotland Yard, or for that matter to the nearest police station. But a delay at that moment seemed to me unendurable, and the sight of Marmie’s imbecile face was more than I could bear. I let out with my left, and had the satisfaction of seeing him measure his length in the gutter.