Nearer came the footsteps—and nearer. A shadowy figure appeared only a yard or so away from the watchful Chief Inspector. Thereupon he acted.
With one surprising spring he hurled himself upon the unprepared man, grasped him by his coat collar, and shone the light of an electric torch fully into his face.
“Hell!” he snapped. “The smart from Spinker’s!”
The ray of the torch lighted up the mean, pinched face of Brisley, blanched now by fright, gleamed upon the sharp, hooked nose and into the cunning little brown eyes. Brisley licked his lips. In Kerry’s muscular grip he bore quite a remarkable resemblance to a rat in the jaws of a terrier.
“Ho, ho!” continued the Chief Inspector, showing his teeth savagely. “So we let Scotland Yard make the pie, and then we steal all the plums, do we?”
He shook the frightened man until Brisley’s broad-brimmed bowler was shaken off, revealing the receding brow and scanty neutral-colored hair.
“We let Scotland Yard work night and day, and then we present our rat-faced selves to Mr. Monte Irvin and say we have ‘found the lady’ do we?” Another vigorous shake followed. “We track Chief Inspectors of the Criminal Investigation Department, do we? We do, eh? We are dirty, skulking mongrels, aren’t we? We require to be kicked from Limehouse to Paradise, don’t we?” He suddenly released Brisley. “So we shall be!” he shouted furiously.
Hot upon the promise came the deed.
Brisley sent up a howl of pain as Kerry’s right brogue came into violent contact with his person. The assault almost lifted him off his feet, and hatless as he was he set off, running as a man runs whose life depends upon his speed. The sound of his pattering footsteps was echoed from wall to wall of the cul-de-sac until finally it was swallowed up in the fog.
Kerry stood listening for some moments, then, directing a furious kick upon the bowler which lay at his feet, he snapped off the light of the torch and pursued his way. The lesser mystery was solved, but the greater was before him.