He was in one of his most violent humours.  He found some slight solace in the reflection that the impudent chauffeur, from whom he had parted in West India Dock Road, must experience great difficulty in finding his way back to the West End.

“Damn the fog!” he muttered, coughing irritably.

It had tricked him, this floating murk of London; for, while he had been enabled to keep the coupe in view right to the fringe of dockland, here, as if bred by old London’s river, the fog had lain impenetrably.

Chief Inspector Kerry was a man who took many risks, but because of this cursed fog he had no definite evidence that Chada’s car had gone to a certain house.  Right of search he had not, and so temporarily he was baffled.

Now the nearest telephone was his objective, and presently, where a blue light dimly pierced the mist, he paused, pushed open a swing door, and stepped into a long, narrow passage.  He descended three stairs, and entered a room laden with a sickly perfume compounded of stale beer and spirits; of greasy humanity—­European, Asiastic, and African; of cheap tobacco and cheaper scents; and, vaguely, of opium.

It was fairly well lighted, but the fog had penetrated here, veiling some of the harshness of its rough appointments.  An unsavoury den was Malay Jack’s, where flotsam of the river might be found.  Yellow men there were, and black men and brown men.  But all the women present were white.

Fan-tan was in progress at one of the tables, the four players being apparently the only strictly sober people in the room.  A woman was laughing raucously as Kerry entered, and many coarse-voiced conversations were in progress; but as he pulled the rough curtain walls aside and walked into the room, a hush, highly complimentary to the Chief Inspector’s reputation, fell upon the assembly.  Only the woman’s raucous laughter continued, rising, a hideous solo, above a sort of murmur, composed of the words “Red Kerry!” spoken in many tones.

Kerry ignored the sensation which his entrance had created, and crossed the room to a small counter, behind which a dusky man was standing, coatless and shirt sleeves rolled up.  He had the skin of a Malay but the features of a stage Irishman of the old school.  And, indeed, had he known his own pedigree, which is a knowledge beyond the ken of any man, partly Irish he might have found himself indeed to be.

This was Malay Jack, the proprietor of one of the roughest houses in Limehouse.  His expression, while propitiatory, was not friendly, but: 

“Don’t get hot and bothered,” snapped Kerry viciously.  “I want to use your telephone, that’s all.”

“Oh,” said the other, unable to conceal his relief, “that’s easy.  Come in.”

He raised a flap in the counter, and Kerry, passing through, entered a little room behind the bar.  Here a telephone stood upon a dirty, littered table, and, taking it up: