Kerry blew down his nose contemptuously, then stopped suddenly.
“Stand still,” he ordered. “I want to listen.”
Silent, they stood in a place of darkness, untouched by any lamplight. Not a sound reached them through the curtain of fog. Asiatic mystery wrapped them about, but Kerry experienced only contempt for the cowardice of his companion, and:
“You need come no farther,” he said coldly. “Good night.”
“But———” began the man.
“Good night,” repeated Kerry.
He walked on briskly, tapping the pavement with his malacca. The sneaking figure of the informer was swallowed up in the fog. But not a dozen paces had the Chief Inspector gone when he was arrested by a frenzied scream, rising, hollowly, in a dreadful, muffled crescendo. Words reached him.
“My God, he's stabbed me!”
Then came a sort of babbling, which died into a moan.
“Hell!” muttered Kerry, “the poor devil was right!”