!" rapped Kerry. "Run for a cab. Brisk. Don't waste a
second."

Some little conversation ensued between manager and patron, then the
tall, handsome Eurasian, waving his hand protestingly, removed his hat
and stepped into the coupe beside Lady Rourke. It immediately moved away
in the direction of Piccadilly.

One glimpse Kerry had of the pretty, fair head lying limply back against
the cushions. The manager of the club was staring after the car.

Kerry stepped out from his hiding place. Durham had disappeared, and
there was no cab in sight, but immediately beyond the illuminated
entrance stood a Rolls-Royce which had been fifth in the rank of parked
cars before the adjustment had been made to enable the coupe to reach
the door. Kerry ran across, and:

"Whose car, my lad?" he demanded of the chauffeur.

The latter, resenting the curt tone of the inquiry, looked the speaker
up and down, and:

"Captain. Egerton's," he replied slowly. "But what business may it be of
yours?"

"I'm Chief Inspector Kerry, of New Scotland Yard," came the rapid reply.
"I want to follow the car that has just left."

"What about running?" demanded the man insolently.

Kerry shot out a small, muscular hand and grasped the speaker's wrist.

"I'll say one thing to you," he rapped. "I'm a police officer, and I
demand your help. Refuse it, and you'll wake up in Vine Street."

The Chief Inspector was on the step now, bending forward so that his
fierce red face was but an inch removed from that of the startled
chauffeur. The quelling force of his ferocious personality achieved its
purpose, as it rarely failed to do.

"I'm getting in," added the Chief Inspector, jumping back on to the
pavement. "Lose that French bus, and I'll charge you with resisting and
obstructing an officer of the law in the execution of his duty. Start."

Kerry leaped in and banged the door--and the Rolls-Royce started.

II

AT MALAY JACK'S

When Kerry left Bond Street the mistiness of the night was developing
into definite fog. It varied in different districts. Thus, St. Paul's
Churchyard had been clear of it at a time when it had lain impenetrably
in Trafalgar Square. When, an hour and a half after setting out in the
commandeered Rolls-Royce, Kerry groped blindly along Limehouse Causeway,
it was through a yellow murk that he made his way--a vapour which could
not only be seen, smelled and felt, but tasted.

He was in one of his most violent humours. He