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Justifiably Angry Young ManThe washroom under the old building where Stalkey and Sons had their offices had been converted somewhat casually from what might well have been an air-raid shelter and was in fact a wine vault, relic of more spacious days. The ceiling was low and arched, the floor stone-flagged, and the ventilation unsuccessful. The row of washbasins, installed about 1913, managed to look strikingly modern in the grim surroundings.
There was a rug-covered camp-bed at one end of the cavern and when Mr. Campion entered Timothy Kinnit was seated upon it, clad only in singlet and shorts. His blood-soaked shirt was lying on the stones before him and when the visitor appeared he raised a battered face in which only the fierce grey eyes were still splendid.
“Hello,” he said. “I kn
