“Then who’s the smart with the swollen face?” inquired Kerry.  “He’s a new one on me.”

“Yes, but he’s been identified by one of the K Division men.  He is an American crook with a clean slate, so far as this side is concerned.  Cohen is his name.  And the idea seems to be that he went in at some point between where he was found by the river police and the point at which Jim Poland was arrested.”

Kerry snapped his teeth together audibly, and: 

“I’m open to learn,” he said, “that the house of Huang Chow is within that area.”

“It is.”

“I thought so.  He died the same way the Chinaman died awhile ago,” snapped Kerry savagely.

“It looks very queer.”  He glanced aside at the local officer.  “Cover him up,” he ordered, and, turning, he walked briskly out of the mortuary, followed by Detective Durham.

Although dawn was not far off, this was the darkest hour of the night, so that even the sounds of dockland were muted and the riverside slept as deeply as the great port of London ever sleeps.  Vague murmurings there were and distant clankings, with the hum of machinery which is never still.

Few of London’s millions were awake at that hour, yet Scotland Yard was awake in the person of the fierce-eyed Chief Inspector and his subordinate.  Perhaps those who lightly criticize the Metropolitan Force might have learned a new respect for the tireless vigilance which keeps London clean and wholesome, had they witnessed this scene on the borders of Limehouse, as Kerry, stepping into a waiting taxi-cab accompanied by Durham, proceeded to Limehouse Police Station in that still hour when the City slept.

The arrival of Kerry created something of a stir amongst the officials on duty.  His reputation in these days was at least as great as that of the most garrulous Labour member.

The prisoner was in cells, but the Chief Inspector elected to interview him in the office; and accordingly, while the officer in charge sat at an extremely tidy writing-table, tapping the blotting-pad with a pencil, and Detective John Durham stood beside him, Kerry paced up and down the little room, deep in reflection, until the door opened and the prisoner was brought in.

One swift glance the Chief Inspector gave at the battle-scarred face, and recognized instantly that this was a badly frightened man.  Crossing to the table he took up a typewritten slip which lay there, and: 

“Your name is James Poland?” he said.  “Four convictions; one, robbery with violence.”

Jim Poland nodded sullenly.

“You were arrested at the corner of Pekin Street about midnight.  What were you doing there?”

“Taking a walk.”

“I’ll say it again,” rapped Kerry, fixing his fierce eyes upon the man’s face.  “What were you doing there?”

“I’ve told you.”

“And I tell you you’re a liar.  Where did you leave the man Cohen?”