He smiled as he chewed.  Duty had called him out into the mist, and for once he had obeyed reluctantly.  That very afternoon had seen the return of Dan Kerry, junior, home from school for the Christmas vacation, and Dan was the apple of his father’s eye.

Mrs. Kerry had reserved her dour Scottish comments upon the boy’s school report for a more seemly occasion than the first day of his holidays; but Kerry had made no attempt to conceal his jubilation—­almost immoral, his wife had declared it to be—­ respecting the lad’s athletic record.  His work on the junior left wing had gained the commendation of a celebrated international; and Kerry, who had interviewed the gymnasium instructor, had learned that Dan Junior bade fair to become an amateur boxer of distinction.

“He is faster on his feet than any boy I ever handled,” the expert had declared.  “He hasn’t got the weight behind it yet, of course, but he’s developing a left that’s going to make history.  I’m of opinion that there isn’t a boy in the seniors can take him on, and I’ll say that he’s a credit to you.”

Those words had fallen more sweetly upon the ears of Chief Inspector Kerry than any encomium of the boy’s learning could have done.  On the purely scholastic side his report was not a good one, admittedly.  “But,” murmured Kerry aloud, “he’s going to be a man.”

He remembered that he had promised, despite the lateness of the hour, to telephone the lad directly he had received a certain report, and to tell him whether he might wait up for his return or whether he must turn in.  Kerry, stamping his small, neatly shod feet upon the pavement, smiled agreeably.  He was thinking of the telephone which recently he had had installed in his house in Brixton.  His wife had demanded this as a Christmas box, pointing out how many uneasy hours she would be spared by the installation.  Kerry had consented cheerfully enough, for was he not shortly to be promoted to the exalted post of a superintendent of the Criminal Investigation Department?

These reflections were cheering and warming; and, waiting until a gap occurred in the stream of cabs and cars, he crossed Piccadilly and proceeded along Bond Street, swinging his shoulders in a manner which would have enabled any constable in the force to recognize “Red Kerry” at a hundred yards.

The fierce eyes scrutinized the occupants of all the lighted cars.  At pedestrians also he stared curiously, and at another smaller group of travellers waiting for the buses on the left-hand side of the street he looked hard and long.  He pursued his way, acknowledged the salutation of a porter who stood outside the entrance to the Embassy Club, and proceeded, glancing about him right and left and with some evident and definite purpose.

A constable standing at the corner of Conduit Street touched his helmet as Kerry passed and the light of an arc-lamp revealed the fierce red face.  The Chief Inspector stopped, turned, and: