Mrs. Kerry, arrayed in a serviceable rain-coat, and wearing a plain felt hat, was standing by the dining-room door as Kerry entered.  She had a basket on her arm.  “I was waiting for ye, Dan,” she said simply.

He kissed her affectionately, put his arm about her waist, and the two entered the cosy little room.  By no ordinary human means was it possible that Mary Kerry should have known that her husband would come home at that time, but he was so used to her prescience in this respect that he offered no comment.  She “kenned” his approach always, and at times when his life had been in danger—­and these were not of infrequent occurrence—­Mary Kerry, if sleeping, had awakened, trembling, though the scene of peril were a hundred miles away, and if awake had blanched and known a deadly sudden fear.

“Ye’ll be goin’ to bed?” she asked.

“For three hours, Mary.  Don’t fail to rouse me if I oversleep.”

“Is it clear to ye yet?”

“Nearly clear.  The dark thing you saw behind it all, Mary, was dope!  Kazmah’s is a secret drug-syndicate.  They’ve appointed a Home office agent, and he’s working independently of us, but . . .”

His teeth came together with a snap.

“Oh, Dan,” said his wife, “it’s a race?  Drugs?  A Home office agent?  Dan, they think the Force is in it?”

“They do!” rapped Kerry.  “I’m for Leman Street in three hours.  If there’s double-dealing behind it, then the mugs are in the East End, and it’s folly, not knavery, I’m looking for.  It’s a race, Mary, and the credit of the Service is at stake!  No, my dear, I’ll have a snack when I wake.  You’re going shopping?”

“I am, Dan.  I’d ha’ started, but I wanted to see ye when ye came hame.  If ye’ve only three hours go straight up the now.  I’ll ha’ something hot a’ ready when ye waken.”

Ten minutes later Kerry was in bed, his short clay pipe between his teeth, and The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius in his hand.  Such was his customary sleeping-draught, and it had never been known to fail.  Half a pipe of Irish twist and three pages of the sad imperial author invariably plunged Chief Inspector Kerry into healthy slumber.

CHAPTER XXV

NIGHT-LIFE OF SOHO

It was close upon midnight when Detective-Sergeant Coombes appeared in a certain narrow West End thoroughfare, which was lined with taxicabs and private cars.  He wore a dark overcoat and a tweed cap, and although his chin was buried in the genial folds of a woollen comforter, and his cap was pulled down over his eyes, his sly smile could easily be detected even in the dim light afforded by the car lamps.  He seemed to have business of a mysterious nature among the cabmen; for with each of them in turn he conducted a brief conversation, passing unobtrusively from cab to cab, and making certain entries in a notebook.  Finally he disappeared.  No one actually saw him go, and no one had actually seen him arrive.  At one moment, however, he was there; in the next he was gone.