“What the devil’s the idea?” he demanded.

He snapped out the words in such fashion that the unfortunate constable almost believed he could see sparks in the misty air.

“I’m sorry, sir, but recognizing you suddenly like, I——­”

“You did?” the fierce voice interrupted.  “How long in the force?”

“Six months, sir.”

“Never salute an officer in plain clothes.”

“I know, sir.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“I told you, sir.”

“Then tell me again.”

“I forgot.”

“You’re paid to remember; bear it in mind.”

Kerry tucked his malacca under his arm and walked on, leaving the unfortunate policeman literally stupefied by his first encounter with the celebrated Chief Inspector.

Presently another line of cars proclaimed the entrance to a club, and just before reaching the first of these Kerry paused.  A man stood in a shadowy doorway, and: 

“Good evening, Chief Inspector,” he said quietly.

“Good evening, Durham.  Anything to report?”

“Yes.  Lou Chada is here again.”

“With whom?”

“Lady Rourke.”

Kerry stepped to the edge of the pavement and spat out a piece of chewing-gum.  From his overcoat pocket he drew a fresh piece, tore off the pink wrapping and placed the gum between his teeth.  Then: 

“How long?” he demanded.

“Came to dinner.  They are dancing.”

“H’m!” The Chief Inspector ranged himself beside the other detective in the shadow of the doorway.  “Something’s brewing, Durham,” he said.  “I think I shall wait.”

His subordinate stared curiously but made no reply.  He was not wholly in his chief’s confidence.  He merely knew that the name of Lou Chada to Kerry was like a red rag to a bull.  The handsome, cultured young Eurasian, fresh from a distinguished university career and pampered by a certain section of smart society, did not conform to Detective Sergeant Durham’s idea of a suspect.  He knew that Lou was the son of Zani Chada, and he knew that Zani Chada was one of the wealthiest men in Limehouse.  But Lou had an expensive flat in George Street; Lou was courted by society butterflies, and in what way he could be connected with the case known as “the Limehouse inquiry,” Durham could not imagine.

That the open indiscretion of Lady “Pat” Rourke might lead to trouble with her husband, was conceivable enough; but this was rather a matter for underhand private inquiry than for the attention of the Criminal Investigation Department of New Scotland Yard.

So mused Durham, standing cold and uncomfortable in the shadowy doorway, and dreaming of a certain cosy fireside, a pair of carpet slippers and a glass of hot toddy which awaited him.  Suddenly: 

“Great flames!  Look!” he cried.

Kerry’s fingers closed, steely, upon Durham’s wrist.  A porter was urgently moving the parked cars farther along the street to enable one, a French coupe, to draw up before the club entrance.