It immediately moved away in the direction of Piccadilly.
One glimpse Kerry had of the pretty, fair head lying limply back
against the cushions. The manager of the club was staring after
the car.
Kerry stepped out from his hiding place. Durham had disappeared,
and there was no cab in sight, but immediately beyond the
illuminated entrance stood a Rolls-Royce which had been fifth in
the rank of parked cars before the adjustment had been made to
enable the coupe to reach the door. Kerry ran across, and:
"Whose car, my lad?" he demanded of the chauffeur.
The latter, resenting the curt tone of the inquiry, looked the
speaker up and down, and:
"Captain. Egerton's," he replied slowly. "But what business may
it be of yours?"
"I'm Chief Inspector Kerry, of New Scotland Yard," came the rapid
reply. "I want to follow the car that has just left."
"What about running?" demanded the man insolently.
Kerry shot out a small, muscular hand and grasped the speaker's
wrist.
"I'll say one thing to you," he rapped. "I'm a police officer,
and I demand your help. Refuse it, and you'll wake up in Vine
Street."
The Chief Inspector was on the step now, bending forward so that
his fierce red face was but an inch removed from that of the
startled chauffeur.
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