Kerry paused for a moment, staring at the pair. The man returned his stare, looking him up and down in a manner meant to be contemptuous. Kerry’s fierce, intolerant gaze became transferred to the face and then the figure of the woman. He tilted his hat further forward and turned aside. The woman’s glance followed him, to the marked disgust of her companion.
“Oh,” she whispered, “what a delightfully savage man! He looks positively uncivilized. I have no doubt he drags women about by their hair. I do hope he’s a member!”
Mollie Gretna spoke loudly enough for Kerry to hear her, but unmoved by her admiration he stepped up to the reception office. 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.