bashed across the head with a bicycle chain."
There was a long silence. Parkins sat still, watching Harry, his big, fleshy face expressionless.
"Is he badly hurt?" Harry asked at last.
" 'Fraid he is. You remember I told you one of these days this basher would hit someone with a thin skull — well, he's done it."
Harry looked at the inspector in horror.
"He's — he's not dead, is he?"
"No, he's not dead, but he's in a very bad shape. I've just come from the hospital. He's as bad as he can be."
"Can I see him?"
"Oh, no. I don't think anyone will be able to see him for a long time. The end of the chain caught him at the back of his neck. The damage may result in paralysis. It's too early to say yet, but if he lives it looks as if he mightn't be much use for years."
Harry sat still. He felt sick.
"I didn't appreciate him," he thought. "He and I have been around together for years. We've had good times together, but we did take each other for granted. And now — well, I shall miss him. It's going to be awfully flat and dull without him. Poor devil! And it might have happened to me! That swine I To have done that to Ron. But, why? Why did he do it?"
"Has he any relations?" Parkins asked, breaking into Harry's thoughts. "I came here because this address was in his wallet, but if he has a wife or relations I'll have to send someone to break the news."
"He has a wife," Harry said. "Perhaps I'd better see her."
"Just as you like. She'll have to be told. I'll send an officer if you'd prefer it."
Harry shook his head.
"No, I'd better go. I expect I'll find the address somewhere amongst his papers. Then his editor will have to be told. The paper ought to do something for him."
"Well, all right, now that's settled, let's have a little talk," Parkins said. "It looks as if the chap who hit you, hit your friend. Any idea why?"
"No. I was wondering myself."
"What was Fisher doing in Soho at twelve o'clock at night?"
"I can tell you that. He was after information. He said he was meeting a man who could tell him something about this pickpocket gang."
"That's right." Parkins looked interested. "I was talking to him last week about the business. He wanted to do an article about it, and came to me for information but I hadn't much to give him except the bare facts. Who was this fellow he was meeting?"
"He didn't say."
"Well, where was he meeting him?"
"Some cafe in Soho. He did mention the name, but I — I can't remember it. You see, I wasn't really interested, and I didn't listen very attentively. It was a cafe in Athens Street I think he said."
"You must remember," Parkins said curtly. "Now look here, Rides, you haven't been too helpful about this business nor about your own accident. You haven't told me all you know. Someone did object to being photographed that night, didn't they?"
"Well, yes," Harry said, changing colour. "But he had nothing to do with this business."
"How do you know?"
"I know who he is. He's an advertising man."
"What's his name?"
"Robert Brady," Harry said sullenly, wondering if Clair would be furious with him for giving her boss's name to the police.
"Why didn't you tell me this before?"
Harry hesitated, then said, "Well, he was with a girl I know. I didn't want her dragged into it.”
"Who's she?"
"My fiancée. I'm sorry, but I'm not giving you her name. She has nothing to do with this business; nor has Brady."
"Your fiancée, eh?" Parkins gave him a long, searching stare. "You know Brady?"
"I don't exactly know him. He's my fiancée’s agent. He doesn't like his photograph taken."
To Harry's relief, Parkins seemed to lose interest in Brady.
"Let's get back to the cafe," he said, resting his big hands on his knees. "I want the name of it. Now come on; think."
Harry thought, but couldn't remember what Ron had told him.
"I'm sorry, but it's no use. It's gone out of my mind."
Parkins looked at his watch. It was ten minutes past two.
"All right. Suppose you hop into your clothes
There was a long silence. Parkins sat still, watching Harry, his big, fleshy face expressionless.
"Is he badly hurt?" Harry asked at last.
" 'Fraid he is. You remember I told you one of these days this basher would hit someone with a thin skull — well, he's done it."
Harry looked at the inspector in horror.
"He's — he's not dead, is he?"
"No, he's not dead, but he's in a very bad shape. I've just come from the hospital. He's as bad as he can be."
"Can I see him?"
"Oh, no. I don't think anyone will be able to see him for a long time. The end of the chain caught him at the back of his neck. The damage may result in paralysis. It's too early to say yet, but if he lives it looks as if he mightn't be much use for years."
Harry sat still. He felt sick.
"I didn't appreciate him," he thought. "He and I have been around together for years. We've had good times together, but we did take each other for granted. And now — well, I shall miss him. It's going to be awfully flat and dull without him. Poor devil! And it might have happened to me! That swine I To have done that to Ron. But, why? Why did he do it?"
"Has he any relations?" Parkins asked, breaking into Harry's thoughts. "I came here because this address was in his wallet, but if he has a wife or relations I'll have to send someone to break the news."
"He has a wife," Harry said. "Perhaps I'd better see her."
"Just as you like. She'll have to be told. I'll send an officer if you'd prefer it."
Harry shook his head.
"No, I'd better go. I expect I'll find the address somewhere amongst his papers. Then his editor will have to be told. The paper ought to do something for him."
"Well, all right, now that's settled, let's have a little talk," Parkins said. "It looks as if the chap who hit you, hit your friend. Any idea why?"
"No. I was wondering myself."
"What was Fisher doing in Soho at twelve o'clock at night?"
"I can tell you that. He was after information. He said he was meeting a man who could tell him something about this pickpocket gang."
"That's right." Parkins looked interested. "I was talking to him last week about the business. He wanted to do an article about it, and came to me for information but I hadn't much to give him except the bare facts. Who was this fellow he was meeting?"
"He didn't say."
"Well, where was he meeting him?"
"Some cafe in Soho. He did mention the name, but I — I can't remember it. You see, I wasn't really interested, and I didn't listen very attentively. It was a cafe in Athens Street I think he said."
"You must remember," Parkins said curtly. "Now look here, Rides, you haven't been too helpful about this business nor about your own accident. You haven't told me all you know. Someone did object to being photographed that night, didn't they?"
"Well, yes," Harry said, changing colour. "But he had nothing to do with this business."
"How do you know?"
"I know who he is. He's an advertising man."
"What's his name?"
"Robert Brady," Harry said sullenly, wondering if Clair would be furious with him for giving her boss's name to the police.
"Why didn't you tell me this before?"
Harry hesitated, then said, "Well, he was with a girl I know. I didn't want her dragged into it.”
"Who's she?"
"My fiancée. I'm sorry, but I'm not giving you her name. She has nothing to do with this business; nor has Brady."
"Your fiancée, eh?" Parkins gave him a long, searching stare. "You know Brady?"
"I don't exactly know him. He's my fiancée’s agent. He doesn't like his photograph taken."
To Harry's relief, Parkins seemed to lose interest in Brady.
"Let's get back to the cafe," he said, resting his big hands on his knees. "I want the name of it. Now come on; think."
Harry thought, but couldn't remember what Ron had told him.
"I'm sorry, but it's no use. It's gone out of my mind."
Parkins looked at his watch. It was ten minutes past two.
"All right. Suppose you hop into your clothes
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