He was in
high good humor. He had spent the afternoon agreeably, interviewing
certain officials charged with policing the East End of London, and
had succeeded, to quote his own language, "in getting a gale up."
Despite the coldness of the weather, he had left two inspectors and a
speechlessly indignant superintendent bathed in perspiration.
"Are you a member, sir?" inquired the girl behind the desk.
Kerry smiled genially. A newsboy thrust open the swing-door, yelling:
"Bond Street murder! A fresh development. Late speshul!"
"Oh!" cried Mollie Gretna to her companion, "get me a paper. Be quick!
I am so excited!"
Kerry took up a pen, and in large bold hand-writing inscribed the
following across two pages of the visitors' book:
"Chief Inspector Kerry. Criminal Investigation Department."
He laid a card on the open book, and, thrusting his cane under his
arm, walked to the head of the stairs.
"Cloak-room on the right, sir," said an attendant.
Kerry paused, glancing over his shoulder and chewing audibly. Then he
settled his hat more firmly upon his red head and descended the
stairs. The attendant went to inspect the visitors' book, but Mollie
Gretna was at the desk before him, and:
"Oh, Bill!" she cried to her annoyed cavalier, "it's Inspector Kerry--
who is in charge of poor Lucy's murder! Oh, Bill! this is lovely!
Something is going to happen! Do come down!"
Followed by the obedient but reluctant "Bill," Mollie ran downstairs,
and almost into the arms of a tall dark girl, who, carrying a purple
opera cloak, was coming up.
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