"She doesn't know wot is 'appenin' now.

If she was on'y watchin' she'd be a ravin' lunatic.

God 'elp us all, we've got ourselves into a nice mess!" Somehow, the old man's Lancashire drawl, with its broad vowels and misplaced aspirates, exercised a singularly soothing effect on Iris's tensely-strung nerves.

It seemed to remove her from that murder-filled arena.

It was redolent of home, of quiet streets, of orderly crowds thronging to the New Brighton sands, of the sober, industrious, God-fearing folk who filled the churches and chapels at each service on a Sunday.