“Give me an envelope,” he directed.
An envelope was found and handed to him. He placed the paper in the envelope, gummed down the lapel, and addressed it in large, bold writing to the Assistant Commissioner of the Criminal Investigation Department, who was his chief. Finally:
“I'm going out,” he explained.
“After what I've said?”
“After what you've said. I'm going out. If I don't come back or don't telephone within the next hour, you will know what to do with this.”
The Limehouse official stared perplexedly.
“But meanwhile,” he protested, “what steps am I to take about the murder? Durham will be back with the body at any moment now, and you say you've got a clue to the murderer.”
“I have,” said Kerry, “but I'm going to get definite evidence. Do nothing until you hear from me.”
“Very good,” answered the other, and Kerry, tucking his malacca cane under his arm, strode out into the fog.
His knowledge of the Limehouse area was extensive and peculiar, so that twenty minutes later, having made only one mistake in the darkness, he was pressing an electric bell set beside a door which alone broke the expanse of a long and dreary brick wall, lining a street which neither by day nor night would have seemed inviting to the casual visitor.