“City four hundred,” called the Chief Inspector curtly.  A moment later:  “Hallo!  Yes,” he said.  “Chief Inspector Kerry speaking.  Put me through to my department, please.”

He stood for a while waiting, receiver in hand, and smiled grimly to note that the uproar in the room beyond had been resumed.  Evidently Malay Jack had given the “all clear” signal.  Then: 

“Chief Inspector Kerry speaking,” he said again.  “Has Detective Sergeant Durham reported?”

“Yes,” was the reply, “half an hour ago.  He’s standing-by at Limehouse Station.  He followed you in a taxi, but lost you on the way owing to the fog.”

“I don’t wonder,” said Kerry.  “His loss is not so great as mine.  Anything else?”

“Nothing else.”

“Good.  I’ll speak to Limehouse.  Good-bye.”

He replaced the receiver and paused for a moment, reflecting.  Extracting a piece of tasteless gum from between his teeth, he deposited it in the grate, where a sickly fire burned; then, tearing the wrapper from a fresh slip, he resumed his chewing and stood looking about him with unseeing eyes.  Fierce they were as ever, but introspective in expression.

Famous for his swift decisions, for once in a way he found himself in doubt.  Malay Jack had keen ears, and there were those in the place who had every reason to be interested in the movements of a member of the Criminal Investigation Department, especially of one who had earned the right to be dreaded by the rats of Limehouse.  London’s peculiar climate fought against him, but he determined to make no more telephone calls but to proceed to Limehouse police station.

He stepped swiftly into the bar, and, as he had anticipated, nearly upset the proprietor, who was standing listening by the half-open door.  Kerry smiled fiercely into the ugly face, lifted the flap, and walked down the room, through the aisle between the scattered tables, where the air was heavy with strange perfumes, touched now with the bite of London fog, and where slanting eyes and straight eyes, sober eyes and drunken eyes, regarded him furtively.  Something of a second hush there was, but one not so complete as the first.

Kerry pulled the curtain aside, mounted the stair, walked along the passage and out through the swing door into the yellow gloom of the Causeway.  Ten slow steps he had taken when he detected a sound of pursuit.  Like a flash he turned, clenching his fists.  Then: 

“Inspector!” whispered a husky voice.

“Yes!  Who are you?  What do you want?”

A dim form loomed up through the fog.

“My name is Peters, sir.  Inspector Preston knows me.”

Kerry had paused immediately under a street lamp, and now he looked into the pinched, lean face of the speaker, and: 

“I’ve heard of you,” he snapped.  “Got some information for me?”

“I think so; but walk on.”