found some slight solace
in the reflection that the impudent chauffeur, from whom he had parted
in West India Dock Road, must experience great difficulty in finding his
way back to the West End.

"Damn the fog!" he muttered, coughing irritably.

It had tricked him, this floating murk of London; for, while he had been
enabled to keep the coupe in view right to the fringe of dockland, here,
as if bred by old London's river, the fog had lain impenetrably.

Chief Inspector Kerry was a man who took many risks, but because of this
cursed fog he had no definite evidence that Chada's car had gone to a
certain house. Right of search he had not, and so temporarily he was
baffled.

Now the nearest telephone was his objective, and presently, where a blue
light dimly pierced the mist, he paused, pushed open a swing door, and
stepped into a long, narrow passage. He descended three stairs, and
entered a room laden with a sickly perfume compounded of stale beer and
spirits; of greasy humanity--European, Asiastic, and African; of cheap
tobacco and cheaper scents; and, vaguely, of opium.

It was fairly well lighted, but the fog had penetrated here, veiling
some of the harshness of its rough appointments. An unsavoury den was
Malay Jack's, where flotsam of the river might be found. Yellow men
there were, and black men and brown men. But all the women present were
white.

Fan-tan was in progress at one of the tables, the four players being
apparently the only strictly sober people in the room. A woman
was laughing raucously as Kerry entered, and many coarse-voiced
conversations were in progress; but as he pulled the rough curtain walls
aside and walked into the room, a hush, highly complimentary to the
Chief Inspector's reputation, fell upon the assembly. Only the woman's
raucous laughter continued, rising, a hideous solo, above a sort of
murmur, composed of the words "Red Kerry!" spoken in many tones.

Kerry ignored the sensation which his entrance had created, and crossed
the room to a small counter, behind which a dusky man was standing,
coatless and shirt sleeves rolled up. He had the skin of a Malay but
the features of a stage Irishman of the old school. And, indeed, had he
known his own pedigree, which is a knowledge beyond the ken of any man,
partly Irish he might have found himself indeed to be.

This was Malay Jack, the proprietor of one of the roughest houses in
Limehouse. His expression, while propitiatory, was not frie