That the open indiscretion of Lady "Pat" Rourke might lead to
trouble with her husband, was conceivable enough; but this was
rather a matter for underhand private inquiry than for the
attention of the Criminal Investigation Department of New
Scotland Yard.
So mused Durham, standing cold and uncomfortable in the shadowy
doorway, and dreaming of a certain cosy fireside, a pair of
carpet slippers and a glass of hot toddy which awaited him.
Suddenly:
"Great flames! Look!" he cried.
Kerry's fingers closed, steely, upon Durham's wrist. A porter was
urgently moving the parked cars farther along the street to
enable one, a French coupe, to draw up before the club entrance.
Two men came out, supporting between them a woman who seemed to
be ill; a slender, blonde woman whose pretty face was pale and
whose wide-open blue eyes stared strangely straight before her.
The taller of her escorts, while continuing to support her,
solicitously wrapped her fur cloak about her bare shoulders; the
other, the manager of the club, stepped forward and opened the
door of the car.
"Lady Rourke!" whispered Durham.
"With Lou Chada!" rapped Kerry. "Run for a cab. Brisk. Don't
waste a second."
Some little conversation ensued between manager and patron, then
the tall, handsome Eurasian, waving his hand protestingly,
removed his hat and stepped into the coupe beside Lady Rourke.
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