The thing for a man who has spent many hours within four walls, Labar decided, was a good brisk walk. He parted from Malone under the blue lamp at the entrance to the police station, and paused to light a cigarette. He nodded amiably to the constable on reserve duty at the doorway, and setting his face towards Chelsea where his modest bachelor apartments were located, swung off briskly down the little courtyard that leads from Grape Street to Piccadilly. He had taken not more than a score of strides when some sixth sense impelled him to whirl upon his heels. In that fraction of a second he had an impression of a dark figure hurling itself upon him from a doorway. An instant earlier and he had saved himself. As it was, he flung up an arm, almost by instinct, and broke the impact of a sandbag. Nevertheless, he went down half-stunned and feebly grappling with his opponent. 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. CHAPTER V In silken pyjamas, and propped up on his pillows, Mr. Larry Hughes toyed with coffee and toast, the while he lazily scanned the _Daily Mail_ with its account of the Streetly House robbery. A soft-footed valet was busy in an adjoining dressing-room. "A light-grey suit, if you please, Tom. And tell Williams to have the Rolls ready not a minute later than twelve." "Very good, sir. Will you be in to lunch?" "I'm doubtful. There's racing on at Kempton, and I may run down." Hughes pushed aside the tray and sprang lightly out of bed. "Bath ready?" "Quite ready, sir." "All right. Be back in ten minutes."