“Very good, sir,” he said.  “I will proceed to Vine Street.”

“Certainly—­certainly,” murmured the Assistant Commissioner, glancing up absently.  “Good night.”

“Good night, sir.”

“Oh, Chief Inspector!”

Kerry turned, his hand on the door-knob.

“Sir?”

“I—­er—­what was I going to say?  Oh, yes!  The social importance of the murdered man raises the case from the—­er—­you follow me?  Public interest will become acute, no doubt.  I have therefore selected you for your well known discretion.  I met Sir Lucien once.  Very sad.  Good night.”

“Good night, sir.”

Kerry passed out into the corridor, closing the door quietly.  The Assistant Commissioner was a man for whom he entertained the highest respect.  Despite the bewildered air and wandering manner, he knew this big, tired-looking soldier for an administrator of infinite capacity and inexhaustive energy.

Proceeding to a room further along the corridor, Chief Inspector Kerry opened the door and looked in.

“Detective-Sergeant Coombes.” he snapped, and rolled chewing-gum from side to side of his mouth.

Detective-Sergeant Coombes, a plump, short man having lank black hair and a smile of sly contentment perpetually adorning his round face, rose hurriedly from the chair upon which he had been seated.  Another man who was in the room rose also, as if galvanized by the glare of the fierce blue eyes.

“I’m going to Vine Street,” said Kerry succinctly; “you’re coming with me,” turned, and went on his way.

Two taxicabs were standing in the yard, and into the first of these Inspector Kerry stepped, followed by Coombes, the latter breathing heavily and carrying his hat in his hand, since he had not yet found time to put it on.

“Vine Street,” shouted Kerry.  “Brisk.”

He leaned back in the cab, chewing industriously.  Coombes, having somewhat recovered his breath, essayed speech.

“Is it something big?” he asked.

“Sure,” snapped Kerry.  “Do they send me to stop dog-fights?”

Knowing the man and recognizing the mood, Coombes became silent, and this silence he did not break all the way to Vine Street.  At the station: 

“Wait,” said Chief Inspector Kerry, and went swinging in, carrying his overall and having the malacca cane tucked under his arm.

A few minutes later he came out again and reentered the cab.

“Piccadilly corner of Old Bond Street,” he directed the man.

“Is it burglary?” asked Detective-Sergeant Coombes with interest.

“No,” said Kerry.  “It’s murder; and there seems to be stacks of evidence.  Sharpen your pencil.”

“Oh!” murmured Coombes.

They were almost immediately at their destination, and Chief Inspector Kerry, dismissing the cabman, set off along Bond Street with his lithe, swinging gait, looking all about him intently.  Rain had ceased, but the air was damp and chilly, and few pedestrians were to be seen.