“Ah,” murmured the Assistant Commissioner. “Yes. Divisional Inspector—Somebody (I cannot read the name) has detained all the parties. But you had better report at Vine Street. It appears to be a big case.”
He sighed wearily.
“Very good, sir. With your permission I will glance at Sir Lucien’s pedigree.”
“Certainly—certainly,” said the Assistant Commissioner, waving one large hand in the direction of a bookshelf.
Kerry crossed the room, laid his oilskin and cane upon a chair, and from the shelf where it reposed took a squat volume. The Assistant Commissioner, hand pressed to brow, began to study a document which lay before him.
“Here we are,” said Kerry, sotto voce. “Pyne, Sir Lucien St. Aubyn, fourth baronet, son of General Sir Christian Pyne, K.C.B. H’m! Born Malta.... Oriel College; first in classics.... H’m. Blue.... India, Burma.... Contested Wigan.... attached British Legation. ... H’m!...”
He returned the book to its place, took up his overall and cane, and:
“Very good, sir,” he said. “I will proceed to Vine Street.”
“Certainly—certainly,” murmured the Assistant Commissioner, glancing up absently. “Good night.”
“Good night, sir.”