“Yes?” he said, and his voice was high-pitched and imperious.

He listened for a moment.

“Very good, sir.”

He replaced the receiver, took up a wet oilskin overall from the back of a chair and the cane from the mantleshelf.  Then rolling chewing-gum from one corner of his mouth into the other, he snapped off the electric light and walked from the room.

Along the corridor he went with a lithe, silent step, moving from the hips and swinging his shoulders.  Before a door marked “Private” he paused.  From his waistcoat pocket he took a little silver convex mirror and surveyed himself critically therein.  He adjusted his neat tie, replaced the mirror, knocked at the door and entered the room of the Assistant Commissioner.

This important official was a man constructed on huge principles, a man of military bearing, having tired eyes and a bewildered manner.  He conveyed the impression that the collection of documents, books, telephones, and other paraphernalia bestrewing his table had reduced him to a state of stupor.  He looked up wearily and met the fierce gaze of the chief inspector with a glance almost apologetic.

“Ah, Chief Inspector Kerry?” he said, with vague surprise.  “Yes.  I told you to come.  Really, I ought to have been at home hours ago.  It’s most unfortunate.  I have to do the work of three men.  This is your department, is it not, Chief Inspector?”

He handed Kerry a slip of paper, at which the Chief Inspector stared fiercely.

“Murder!” rapped Kerry.  “Sir Lucien Pyne.  Yes, sir, I am still on duty.”

His speech, in moments of interest, must have suggested to one overhearing him from an adjoining room, for instance, the operation of a telegraphic instrument.  He gave to every syllable the value of a rap and certain words he terminated with an audible snap of his teeth.

“Ah,” murmured the Assistant Commissioner.  “Yes.  Divisional Inspector —­Somebody (I cannot read the name) has detained all the parties.  But you had better report at Vine Street.  It appears to be a big case.”

He sighed wearily.

“Very good, sir.  With your permission I will glance at Sir Lucien’s pedigree.”

“Certainly—­certainly,” said the Assistant Commissioner, waving one large hand in the direction of a bookshelf.

Kerry crossed the room, laid his oilskin and cane upon a chair, and from the shelf where it reposed took a squat volume.  The Assistant Commissioner, hand pressed to brow, began to study a document which lay before him.

“Here we are,” said Kerry, sotto voce.  “Pyne, Sir Lucien St. Aubyn, fourth baronet, son of General Sir Christian Pyne, K.C.B.  H’m!  Born Malta. . . .  Oriel College; first in classics. . . .  H’m.  Blue. . . .  India, Burma. . . .  Contested Wigan. . . . attached British Legation. . . .  H’m! . . .”

He returned the book to its place, took up his overall and cane, and: