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. But I have made it a practice since taking up my residence here to wear a cap heavily padded. I apprehend sandbags and pieces of loaded tubing.”
“The tube is not made,” declared Kerry, “which can do the job. You’re harder to kill than a Chinese-Jew.”
“Your own escape is almost equally remarkable,” added Seton. “I rarely miss at such short range. But you had nearly broken my wrist with that kick.”