still," he ordered. "I want to listen."

Silent, they stood in a place of darkness, untouched by any lamplight.
Not a sound reached them through the curtain of fog. Asiatic mystery
wrapped them about, but Kerry experienced only contempt for the
cowardice of his companion, and:

"You need come no farther," he said coldly. "Good night."

"But------" began the man.

"Good night," repeated Kerry.

He walked on briskly, tapping the pavement with his malacca. The
sneaking figure of the informer was swallowed up in the fog. But not
a dozen paces had the Chief Inspector gone when he was arrested by a
frenzied scream, rising, hollowly, in a dreadful, muffled crescendo.
Words reached him.

"My God, he's stabbed me!"

Then came a sort of babbling, which died into a moan.

"Hell!" muttered Kerry, "the poor devil was right!"

He turned and began to run back, fumbling in his pocket for his electric
torch. Almost in the same moment that he found it he stumbled upon
Peters, who lay half in the road and half upon the sidewalk.

Kerry pressed the button, and met the glance of upturned, glazing eyes.
Even as he dropped upon his knee beside the dying man, Peters swept his
arm around in a convulsive movement, having the fingers crooked, coughed
horribly, and rolled upon his face.

Switching off the light of the torch, Kerry clenched his jaws in a tense
effort of listening, literally holding his breath. But no sound reached
him through the muffling fog. A moment he hesitated, well knowing his
danger, then viciously snapping on the light again, he quested in the
blood-stained mud all about the body of the murdered man.

"Ah!"

It was an exclamation of triumph.

One corner hideously stained, for it had lain half under Peters's
shoulder, Kerry gingerly lifted between finger and thumb a handkerchief
of fine white silk, such as is carried in the breast pocket of an
evening coat.

It bore an ornate monogram worked in gold, and representing the letters
"L. C." Oddly enough, it was the corner that bore the monogram which was
also bloodstained.

III

THE ROOM OF THE GOLDEN BUDDHA

It was a moot point whether Lady Pat Rourke merited condemnation or
pity. She possessed that type of blonde beauty which seems to be a
lodestone for mankind in general. Her husband was wealthy, twelve
years her senior, and, far from watching over her with jealous care--an
attitude which often characterizes such unions--he, on the contrary,