and misty, now threatening fog and now rain. Many
travellers were abroad at this Christmas season, the pleasure seekers
easily to be distinguished from those whom business had detained in
town, and who hurried toward their various firesides. The theatres
were disgorging their audiences. Streams of lighted cars bore parties
supperward; less pretentious taxicabs formed links in the chain.

From the little huddled crowd of more economical theatre-goers who
waited at the stopping place of the motor-buses, Kerry detached himself,
walking slowly along westward and staring reflectively about him.
Opposite the corner of Bond Street he stood still, swinging his malacca
cane and gazing fixedly along this narrow bazaar street of the
Baghdad of the West. His trim, athletic figure was muffled in a big,
double-breasted, woolly overcoat, the collar turned up about his ears.
His neat bowler hat was tilted forward so as to shade the fierce blue
eyes. Indeed, in that imperfect light, little of the Chief Inspector's
countenance was visible except his large, gleaming white teeth, which he
constantly revealed in the act of industriously chewing mint gum.

He smiled as he chewed. Duty had called him out into the mist, and for
once he had obeyed reluctantly. That very afternoon had seen the return
of Dan Kerry, junior, home from school for the Christmas vacation, and
Dan was the apple of his father's eye.

Mrs. Kerry had reserved her dour Scottish comments upon the boy's school
report for a more seemly occasion than the first day of his holidays;
but Kerry had made no attempt to conceal his jubilation--almost immoral,
his wife had declared it to be--respecting the lad's athletic record.
His work on the junior left wing had gained the commendation of a
celebrated international; and Kerry, who had interviewed the gymnasium
instructor, had learned that Dan Junior bade fair to become an amateur
boxer of distinction.

"He is faster on his feet than any boy I ever handled," the expert had
declared. "He hasn't got the weight behind it yet, of course, but he's
developing a left that's going to make history. I'm of opinion that
there isn't a boy in the seniors can take him on, and I'll say that he's
a credit to you."

Those words had fallen more sweetly upon the ears of Chief Inspector
Kerry than any encomium of the boy's learning could have done. On the
purely scholastic side his report was not a good one, admittedly. "But,"
murmured Kerry aloud