But she leapt up, her pupils suddenly dilating and her delicate nostrils twitching in a manner which unmistakably pointed to the impossibility of thwarting her if sanity were to be retained.

“Ring him up, Lucy,” she repeated in a low voice.  “He is there.  Now that I have someone behind me I see my way at last!”

“There may, nevertheless, be a better way,” said Sir Lucien; but he added quickly:  “Very well, dear, I will do as you wish.  I have a little cocaine, which I will give you.”

He went out to the telephone, carefully closing the study door.

That he had counted upon the influence of the drug to reduce Rita to a more reasonable frame of mind was undoubtedly the fact, for presently as they proceeded on foot towards old Bond Street he reverted to something like his old ironical manner.  But Rita’s determination was curiously fixed.  Unmoved by every kind of appeal, she proceeded to the appointment which Sir Lucien had made—­ignorant of that which Fate held in store for her—­and Sir Lucien, also humanly blind, walked on to meet his death.

PART THIRD

THE MAN FROM WHITEHALL

CHAPTER XXIII

CHIEF INSPECTOR KERRY RESIGNS

“Come in,” said the Assistant Commissioner.  The door opened and Chief Inspector Kerry entered.  His face was as fresh-looking, his attire as spruce and his eyes were as bright, as though he had slept well, enjoyed his bath and partaken of an excellent breakfast.  Whereas he had not been to bed during the preceding twenty-four hours, had breakfasted upon biscuits and coffee, and had spent the night and early morning in ceaseless toil.  Nevertheless he had found time to visit a hairdressing saloon, for he prided himself upon the nicety of his personal appearance.

He laid his hat, cane and overall upon a chair, and from a pocket of his reefer jacket took out a big notebook.

“Good morning, sir,” he said.

“Good morning, Chief Inspector,” replied the Assistant Commissioner.  “Pray be seated.  No doubt”—­he suppressed a weary sigh—­“you have a long report to make.  I observe that some of the papers have the news of Sir Lucien Pyne’s death.”

Chief Inspector Kerry smiled savagely.

“Twenty pressmen are sitting downstairs,” he said “waiting for particulars.  One of them got into my room.”  He opened his notebook.  “He didn’t stay long.”

The Assistant Commissioner gazed wearily at his blotting-pad, striking imaginary chords upon the table-edge with his large widely extended fingers.  He cleared his throat.

“Er—­Chief Inspector,” he said, “I fully recognize the difficulties which—­you follow me?  But the Press is the Press.  Neither you nor I could hope to battle against such an institution even if we desired to do so.  Where active resistance is useless, a little tact—­you quite understand?”