ot a clue to the murderer."

"I have," said Kerry, "but I'm going to get definite evidence. Do
nothing until you hear from me."

"Very good," answered the other, and Kerry, tucking his malacca cane
under his arm, strode out into the fog.

His knowledge of the Limehouse area was extensive and peculiar, so that
twenty minutes later, having made only one mistake in the darkness, he
was pressing an electric bell set beside a door which alone broke the
expanse of a long and dreary brick wall, lining a street which neither
by day nor night would have seemed inviting to the casual visitor.

The door was opened by a Chinaman wearing national dress, revealing
a small, square lobby, warmly lighted and furnished Orientally. Kerry
stepped in briskly.

"I want to see Mr. Zani Chada. Tell him I am here. Chief Inspector Kerry
is my name."

The Chinaman bowed, crossed the lobby, and, drawing some curtains aside,
walked up four carpeted stairs and disappeared into a short passage
revealed by the raising of the tapestry. As he did so Kerry stared about
him curiously.

He had never before entered the mystery house of Zani Chada, nor had he
personally encountered the Eurasian, reputed to be a millionaire,
but who chose, for some obscure reason, to make his abode in this old
rambling building, once a country mansion, which to-day was closely
invested by dockland and the narrow alleys of Chinatown. It was
curiously still in the lobby, and, as he determined, curiously Eastern.
He was conscious of a sense of exhilaration. That Zani Chada controlled
powerful influences, he knew well. But, reviewing the precautions
which he had taken, Kerry determined that the trump card was in his
possession.

The Chinese servant descended the stairs again and intimated that the
visitor should follow him. Kerry, carrying his hat and cane, mounted the
stairs, walked along the carpeted passage, and was ushered into a queer,
low room furnished as a library.

It was lined with shelves containing strange-looking books, none of
which appeared to be English. Upon the top of the shelves were grotesque
figures of gods, pieces of Chinese pottery and other Oriental ornaments.
Arms there were in the room, and rich carpets, carven furniture, and an
air of luxury peculiarly exotic. Furthermore, he detected a faint smell
of opium from which fact he divined that Zani Chada was addicted to the
national vice of China.

Seated before a long narrow table was the notor