Five minutes later Chief Inspector Kerry entered the street.  His dark overcoat and white silk muffler concealed a spruce dress suit, a fact betrayed by black, braided trousers, unusually tight-fitting, and boots which almost glittered.  He carried the silver-headed malacca cane, and had retained his narrow-brimmed howler at its customary jaunty angle.

Passing the lines of waiting vehicles, he walked into the entrance of a popular night-club which faced the narrow street.  On a lounge immediately inside the doorway a heated young man was sitting fanning his dancing partner and gazing into her weakly pretty face in vacuous adoration.

Kerry paused for a moment, staring at the pair.  The man returned his stare, looking him up and down in a manner meant to be contemptuous.  Kerry’s fierce, intolerant gaze became transferred to the face and then the figure of the woman.  He tilted his hat further forward and turned aside.  The woman’s glance followed him, to the marked disgust of her companion.

“Oh,” she whispered, “what a delightfully savage man!  He looks positively uncivilized.  I have no doubt he drags women about by their hair.  I do hope he’s a member!”

Mollie Gretna spoke loudly enough for Kerry to hear her, but unmoved by her admiration he stepped up to the reception office.  He was in high good humor.  He had spent the afternoon agreeably, interviewing certain officials charged with policing the East End of London, and had succeeded, to quote his own language, “in getting a gale up.”  Despite the coldness of the weather, he had left two inspectors and a speechlessly indignant superintendent bathed in perspiration.

“Are you a member, sir?” inquired the girl behind the desk.

Kerry smiled genially.  A newsboy thrust open the swing-door, yelling:  “Bond Street murder!  A fresh development.  Late speshul!”

“Oh!” cried Mollie Gretna to her companion, “get me a paper.  Be quick!  I am so excited!”

Kerry took up a pen, and in large bold hand-writing inscribed the following across two pages of the visitors’ book: 

“Chief Inspector Kerry.  Criminal Investigation Department.”

He laid a card on the open book, and, thrusting his cane under his arm, walked to the head of the stairs.

“Cloak-room on the right, sir,” said an attendant.

Kerry paused, glancing over his shoulder and chewing audibly.  Then he settled his hat more firmly upon his red head and descended the stairs.  The attendant went to inspect the visitors’ book, but Mollie Gretna was at the desk before him, and: 

“Oh, Bill!” she cried to her annoyed cavalier, “it’s Inspector Kerry—­ who is in charge of poor Lucy’s murder!  Oh, Bill! this is lovely!  Something is going to happen!  Do come down!”

Followed by the obedient but reluctant “Bill,” Mollie ran downstairs, and almost into the arms of a tall dark girl, who, carrying a purple opera cloak, was coming up.