stood in a
shadowy doorway, and:

"Good evening, Chief Inspector," he said quietly.

"Good evening, Durham. Anything to report?"

"Yes. Lou Chada is here again."

"With whom?"

"Lady Rourke."

Kerry stepped to the edge of the pavement and spat out a piece of
chewing-gum. From his overcoat pocket he drew a fresh piece, tore off
the pink wrapping and placed the gum between his teeth. Then:

"How long?" he demanded.

"Came to dinner. They are dancing."

"H'm!" The Chief Inspector ranged himself beside the other detective in
the shadow of the doorway. "Something's brewing, Durham," he said. "I
think I shall wait."

His subordinate stared curiously but made no reply. He was not wholly
in his chief's confidence. He merely knew that the name of Lou Chada
to Kerry was like a red rag to a bull. The handsome, cultured young
Eurasian, fresh from a distinguished university career and pampered by a
certain section of smart society, did not conform to Detective Sergeant
Durham's idea of a suspect. He knew that Lou was the son of Zani Chada,
and he knew that Zani Chada was one of the wealthiest men in Limehouse.
But Lou had an expensive flat in George Street; Lou was courted by
society butterflies, and in what way he could be connected with the case
known as "the Limehouse inquiry," Durham could not imagine.

That the open indiscretion of Lady "Pat" Rourke might lead to trouble
with her husband, was conceivable enough; but this was rather a matter
for underhand private inquiry than for the attention of the Criminal
Investigation Department of New Scotland Yard.

So mused Durham, standing cold and uncomfortable in the shadowy doorway,
and dreaming of a certain cosy fireside, a pair of carpet slippers and a
glass of hot toddy which awaited him. Suddenly:

"Great flames! Look!" he cried.

Kerry's fingers closed, steely, upon Durham's wrist. A porter was
urgently moving the parked cars farther along the street to enable one,
a French coupe, to draw up before the club entrance.

Two men came out, supporting between them a woman who seemed to be ill;
a slender, blonde woman whose pretty face was pale and whose wide-open
blue eyes stared strangely straight before her. The taller of her
escorts, while continuing to support her, solicitously wrapped her fur
cloak about her bare shoulders; the other, the manager of the club,
stepped forward and opened the door of the car.

"Lady Rourke!" whispered Durham.

"With Lou Chada