W."
"God's truth!" gasped Kerry. "It's the man from Whitehall!"
The stertorous breathing ceased, and a very dirty hand was thrust up
to him.
"I'm glad you spoke, Chief Inspector Kerry," drawled a vaguely
familiar voice. "I was just about to kick you in the back of the
neck!"
Kerry dropped the wallet and grasped the proffered hand. "719" stood
up, smiling grimly. Footsteps were clattering on the stairs. Coombes
had heard the shot.
"Sir," said Kerry, "if ever you need a testimonial to your efficiency
at this game, my address is Sixty-seven Spenser Road, Brixton. We've
met before."
"We have, Chief Inspector," was the reply. "We met at Kazmah's, and
later at a certain gambling den in Soho."
The pseudo fireman dragged a big cigar-case from his hip-pocket.
"I'm known as Seton Pasha. Can I offer you a cheroot?"
CHAPTER XXXI
THE STORY OF 719
In a top back room of the end house in the street which also boasted
the residence of Sin Sin Wa, Seton Pasha and Chief Inspector Kerry sat
one on either side of a dirty deal table. Seton smoked and Kerry
chewed. A smoky oil-lamp burned upon the table, and two notebooks lay
beside it.
"It is certainly odd," Seton was saying, "that you failed to break my
neck.
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