“He might,” snapped Kerry, “but he didn't.”
Yet, remembering his wife, who would be waiting for him in the cosy sitting-room he knew a sudden pang. Perhaps he did take unnecessary chances. Others had said so. Hard upon the thought came the memory of his boy, and of the telephone message which the episodes of the night had prevented him from sending.
He remembered, too, something which his fearless nature had prompted him to forget: he remembered how, just as he had arisen from beside the body of the murdered man, oblique eyes had regarded him swiftly out of the fog. He had lashed out with a boxer's instinct, but his knuckles had encountered nothing but empty air. No sound had come to tell him that the thing had not been an illusion. Only, once again, as he groped his way through the shuttered streets of Chinatown and the silence of the yellow mist, something had prompted him to turn; and again he had detected the glint of oblique eyes, and faintly had discerned the form of one who followed him.
Kerry chewed viciously, then:
“I think I'll 'phone the wife,” he said abruptly. “She'll be expecting me.”
Almost before he had finished speaking the 'phone bell rang, and a few moments later:
“Someone to speak to you, Chief Inspector,” cried the officer in charge.
“Ah!” exclaimed Kerry, his fierce eyes lighting up. “That will be from home.”
“I don't think so,” was the reply. “But see who it is.”
“Hello!” he called.