“I've heard of you,” he snapped. “Got some information for me?”
“I think so; but walk on.”
Chief Inspector Kerry hesitated. Peters belonged to a class which Kerry despised with all the force of his straightforward character. A professional informer has his uses from the police point of view; and while evidence of this kind often figured in reports made to the Chief Inspector, he personally avoided contact with such persons, as he instinctively and daintily avoided contact with personal dirt. But now, something so big was at stake that his hesitation was only momentary.
A vision of the pale face of Lady Rourke, of the golden head leaning weakly back upon the cushions of the coupe, as he had glimpsed it in Bond Street, rose before his mind's eye as if conjured up out of the fog. Peters shuffled along beside him, and:
“Young Chada's done himself in to-night,” continued the husky voice. “He brought a swell girl to the old man's house an hour ago. I was hanging about there, thinking I might get some information. I think she was doped.”
“Why?” snapped Kerry.
“Well, I was standing over on the other side of the street. Lou Chada opened the door with a key; and when the light shone out I saw him carry her in.”
“Carry her in?”
“Yes. She was in evening dress, with a swell cloak.”
“The car?”