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Spike went toward the man as he limped down the corridor.

"What's wrong?"

Creager stopped to brush his knees.

"You'll know all about it," he said, and then: "You're a reporter, aren't you? I've got something for you."

Spike was first and foremost a newspaper man; a story to him was meat and drink, the beginning and end of his day's ambition. He went back to Howett.

"Will you excuse me for a time? I want to see this man."

"Who was it that struck him—Bellamy?"

It was the girl who asked, and there was a certain suppressed vehemence in her tone which made Spike open his eyes.

"Yes, Miss Howett. Do you know him?"

"I've heard of him," she said slowly.

Spike accompanied the aggrieved Creager into the hall. The man was white and trembling, and it was some time before he could recover his voice.

"It is perfectly true what he said. I may lose my pension, but I'm going to risk that. Look here, Mister——"

"Holland's my name," said Spike.

"I can't tell you here, but if you'll come to my house—Rose Cottage, Field Road, New Barnet——"